


But I Was a Better Man With You

by EllieSaxon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Sex, Bisexual John, Break Up, But not that much of either really, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Gay Sex, Gay Sherlock, Happy Ending, Heterosexual Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Language, Unilock, bottomlock, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/pseuds/EllieSaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in the world has a gift, a power that manifests at some point in their lives. John's power for healing led him to university to study medicine. While studying, he meets the intense, passionate, whirlwind Sherlock Holmes, with the gift of observation. The two start an equally intense, passionate, whirlwind, but ultimately doomed, romance.</p><p>Ten years after things between John and Sherlock crashed and burned, John runs into Mycroft, and meets Sherlock's twin sister, Whitney. Like Sherlock, Whitney is enigmatic and passionate, and it appears she shares his gift of observation. </p><p>As the two begin to get to know each other, John feels the siren call of another Holmes. But John can't be sure his feelings for Whitney are genuine, or if they're just a result of her being so like Sherlock, the man he never fully let go of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alright, Marple

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in over 10 years. I'm most decidedly NOT a writer, but this idea popped into my head one day and wouldn't leave until I wrote it down. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. English IS my native language, I have just never excelled in the language arts.
> 
> All the chapters are written, I just need to edit them. So if people like it, I'll try to edit and post on a regular basis.

John Watson is nothing special, there’s nothing really that sets him out from the rest of crowd. His sandy blonde hair is nothing special, neither are his dark blue eyes. People often mistake his eyes for brown, but no, they’re blue, you just have to get close enough to see them. But even that’s not special, there are far more interesting eyes in the world. Sure John is fit, finding time to play some football when not in class, studying, or working, but he’s short, shorter than many women, and that doesn’t inspire much swooning. John Watson is nothing special, unless you count the healing thing.

Everybody has a gift of sorts, an innate ability that manifests sometime in childhood or adolescence. There are psychics, getting glimpses of the future or reading peoples thoughts, John is always careful around the latter. Some people have heightened senses, John never met someone with eyesight and hearing like his mother. Then there were the kids who discovered they were telekinetic, pretending to be Jedi or wizards, not that John was ever jealous. And then there is John, John has the gift of healing. But it wasn’t the exciting kind of healing, the Wolverine kind of healing. No, John simply knows just how treat illness and injury, he can diagnose almost by just looking at a person, and can utilize almost anything to treat the sick or injured. Being such a healer is certainly valued, but there are others like him, especially here in medical school. So no, John Watson has never felt particularly special, but that’s always been okay with him, he’s never felt the need to stand out.

Right about now John is wishing he had a heat gift. London got its first snow fall yesterday, the temperature has fallen, and like an idiot, John left his hat and gloves back at work. If he doesn’t find Molly’s flat in the next five minutes, he is going to call it a night, and send his apologies in the morning. John had met Molly Hooper last year when he TA-ed her pathophysiology lab. They became fast friends, she understood the subject matter quickly, and was happy to help her fellow classmates so that John didn’t have to sprint from student to student, answering their numerous questions. It wasn’t until later, when John learned Molly’s gift, that he realized why she was such a quick study. John likes to joke that Molly speaks to dead people. She doesn’t literally speak to the dead, Molly has the ability to look into a body, and see how it functions. She claims that the stillness of the dead bodies are less distracting than the constant motion and interactions going on inside the living. It’s a bit morbid, but John figures you have to be a bit morbid to make your living dealing with disease, injury, and death.

Molly is throwing her boyfriend a party to celebrate him getting accepted into the police academy, and to “start the new term off right!” John plays football with Greg Lestrade, Molly’s boyfriend, and much like with Molly, they formed an easy friendship. They bonded over not only a love of football, but also the fact that their lives and careers were all but chosen for them. Greg has an ability to detect when people are lying, coupled with the fact that he has a knack for problem solving, and his father is a detective inspector with Scotland Yard, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion Greg would be following in his father’s footsteps. Though both are excited for what is to come in their future careers, and it was somewhat comforting to know their life paths from an early age, John and Greg agree that it did take a bit of mystery and fun out of the discovery.

 John was thrilled when Greg tackled him before practice earlier in the week, practically yelling that he was on his way to becoming a detective. But right now, John was regretting his earlier enthusiasm when Molly told him about the party. Five more minutes, five more minutes in the cold, and John is calling it quits. Four minutes and twenty seven seconds later, John walks through Molly’s door.

 

* * *

 

John has to hand it to her, Molly does know how to throw together a party. Now if only he could find her or Greg to tell them so. John has been at the party for about a half hour, downed one beer, chatted with several football mates, met a few of Molly’s friends and a few of Greg’s criminology friends, and yet has seen neither hide nor hair of the hostess and guest of honor.

Making his way into the kitchen to get a refill, John finally spots a glimpse of Molly’s long auburn hair. Fresh drink in hand, John goes over to greet the happy couple, when he stops short. They appear to be having a rather heated conversation with beanpole with a shock of black curls.

“Of course you don’t have to stay, we’re not holding you hostage.” John hears Greg’s droll voice say.

“Good. Then Molly, I’ll see you at the morgue to pick up the ears.” Says a rich baritone, John can hardly believe came out of the beanpole .

“Of course if you leave now,” Molly pipes up, an exhausted edge to her normally sweet voice “I might not be able to sneak samples to you after Dr. Pieterson kicks you out of the morgue. And who knows if Greg will be willing to let someone in on his future police work, who so callously abandon his party.”

“Extortion is not a good look on you, Hooper.” The bean pole huffs. 

“Everything’s a good look on her.” Pride, oozing from Greg’s voice. “ John, you made it!” Greg says, finally spotting John.

Taking that as his queue, John joins the trio, and comes face to face with the most striking person he’s ever seen. Tall, perhaps half a foot taller than John, the bean pole looks John over with cat-like ice blue-green eyes. The light from the corner lamp hitting high, sharp cheekbones, to casts an otherworldly shadow across pale skin. John notes that, on paper, these features should not work together, but somehow, on this man, they do.

“John, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes.” Molly says, emphasizing the word ‘friend’. “And Sherlock, this is John Watson….”

“Your clearly bisexual fellow medical student, with a healing ability, and plays some sport with Lestrade.”

“Talking about me, have you?” John laughs, turning to Molly and Greg. 

“Not a word” A small smile forming on Greg’s face.

“Then how did you..” John says, turning back to the bean pole, to this Sherlock. 

“You clearly know both Molly and Lestrade, both together and separately. The fact that you appear equally comfortable with both of them, speaks to that.” Sherlock begins to rattle off. “The strong smell of antiseptic, and the address of the party written on a prescription pad, suggests medical student. So that’s how you know Molly. Medical students generally have some sort of anatomy related gift, and healing is the safest bet.”

“Ok, and how did you know about Greg and I playing football together?”

“Both of you have grass stains and mud from the same park near campus, on your shoes. It could be that you both just happened to walk through the park, but that level of build up suggests extended periods in the grass and mud, so sport it is.”

“And me being bi-sexual? Which, by the way, you’re lucky I’m already out, or you’d have a serious problem on your hands.” John adds.

“I overheard you chatting up Molly’s friend Janet.”

“Janine.” Molly corrects.

“Whatever. I overheard you chatting her up when you refilled your drink. But when you saw me, your eyes dilated and your breathing increased, both clear signs of attraction.” Sherlock finishes, sounding both proud and a bit hesitant.

“That was….extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.” John says in amazement. “What else can you tell about me?”

“Your father was an alcoholic, and died as a result of it.”

“Ok. Greg, Molly, you had to have told him that.” John says, turning to find the couple had slipped away.

“They really didn't. Your watch did.” A small smile forming on Sherlock’s face. “It’s only about 5 years old, but the style is clearly more an older individual’s taste. So, it was a hand-me-down, most likely from a parent. You wear it, but it’s not well maintained. You want to honor the previous owner, but you’re a bit bitter about it. You loved the previous owner, but you think their death was avoidable. The fact that you look guilty about drinking a second beer, suggests a family history with alcohol you hope to escape.”

“Amazing. You got all that from a dirty watch and me frowning at my drink. Absolutely amazing” John says, grinning up at Sherlock.

“You’re a very strange man, John Watson.” Sherlock says, shaking his head almost in disbelief.

“Oy! You’re one to talk, Miss Marple!” Laughs John. “She’s a TV detective. You know what, never mind” He says when met with a blank stare.

“It’s just, people don’t usually respond like that.”

“What do people usually do?”

“Hit me or walk away.” Sherlock smiles. “Usually both.”

Poorly stifling a laugh, John grins. “Alright, Marple, I’m going to temp my family’s fate with another drink. Then you are going to tell me about everyone else here.” Perhaps his drinks were already getting to him, while never shy, John had never been this bold with a new acquaintance before.

 When John returns with two cups of even he doesn't know, Sherlock begins scanning the room, finding targets, and spewing their life stories for John. 

 

* * *

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have told her she was wasting her time reading physics.” John chuckles, making an ice pack for Sherlock’s soon to be bruised cheek.

Really, who says someone is wasting her life on a subject she loves, loud enough for the girl to hear? Sure, John thought it was amazing Sherlock could tell just by the way the girl was chewing her nails. And yes, John had been encouraging Sherlock’s deductions all night, showering him with praise. But really, Sherlock deserved that ringed slap.

“It’s the cross I must bear.” giggles Sherlock, sliding down the wall to sit on the hall floor. Perhaps his drinks were getting to him as well.

“So when did you realize you had the ability to know someone’s entire lives just by looking at them?” John asks, flopping down next to Sherlock.

“I’ve always been able to do it, it kind of runs in the family. My mum does it. My brother does it, unfortunately.” Sherlock says with a sneer. “Whitney can do it.” He adds with a laugh.

“Who?”

“My _twin_ sister _._ ” A fact that is apparently hilarious to Sherlock. Why, John can’t figure out.

“So you joining the Yard like Greg? Put that gift to good use?”

“Oh god no!” Sherlock actually recoils. “I do love a good crime to solve, actually do it in my spare time. But why would I want to subject myself to a petty chain of command. It would only hold me back.”

“Humble too, I see” John snorts. “Well, I’ve known I was going to be a doctor since I was a kid. Figured out I could heal people when I was thirteen, neighbor’s dog attacked her and I helped fix her leg, and I never looked back.”

“Well having things dictated to you works for some people, but I need a little flexibility.” Any edge to Sherlock’s voice, dulled by the alcohol.

“Ass.”John says, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder. “Did you say you solve crime in your spare time?”

“Only when the police miss something, which is always. It’s how I met Lestrade, his father sometimes listens to me when I have a tip.” 

“You’re a damn superhero, aren’t you? Solving crimes, fighting for truth and justice” John says, struggling to stand and execute is best power stance.

“You could come along sometime. Every superhero needs a good sidekick.” And with that, both devolve into a fit of giggles, oblivious to the stares of their fellow students.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the night, when Sherlock had regaled John with stories of his various cases, and thoroughly pissed off everyone else at the party, both boys are pleasantly tipsy and it’s time to go. As fate, destiny, or sheer dumb luck would have it, Sherlock lives not too far from John, so they’re able to walk together and continue their conversation. Well, it is more of a slow stumble and ongoing babble interpreted with giggles.

 

“Do you want my number or something?” John asks when it’s time for him to turn down his street. “You know, so I can see a crime scene.” He adds when met with a puzzled look from Sherlock.

“Oh, yeah sure. Didn’t think you were serious. No one ever wants to go.” A baffled Sherlock says, fumbling for his phone

“Course I do. Don’t want this to be the last I see of you.”  

Pausing his less than graceful attempt to extract his phone from his tight jeans pocket, Sherlock levels John with a heated stare. “Listen John, I find you incredibly attractive, but I don’t do relationships. I’m a get off and get out person, so if….”

Later John will blame it on the drinks lowering his inhibition, but whatever Sherlock was going to say is cut off by John surging forward, and unceremoniously crashing his lips in to Sherlock’s. After a few seconds, John can feel Sherlock recover from the initial shock, his hands rising to grip his hips. Encouraged, John parts his lips, asking silent permission to deepen the kiss, which Sherlock readily grants. Feeling Sherlock’s tongue moving against his own, John lets out a low, heady groan, hands moving from the lapels of Sherlock’s long coat, to his back, pulling Sherlock tight against his chest, and tilting his head for a better angle.

Before long the need to breath gets to great, and John forces himself to pull away from Sherlock’s now kiss swollen lips. “I don’t remember saying anything about a relationship. I’m no stranger to a one night stand. Now, tell me about this ‘get off and get out’ lifestyle you lead.”

“Gladly.” Sherlock hums before recapturing John’s mouth. “Or better yet, where’s your flat, and I’ll show you.”

 

Without another word, John quickly pulls Sherlock towards a shabby looking row house, and through the door of the second flat on the left. Before the door is even fully closed, Sherlock has John forced up against the wall, mouth attacking John’s, as his hands start working at John’s belt. Never known for idle hands, John starts on the buttons of Sherlock’s unbelievably posh shirt

“Wait. Sherlock, wait!” John gasps, pulling his mouth away.

“Don’t tell me you want to stop. Please, don’t.” Sherlock whimpers, palming John through his cotton pants, grinding his own obvious arousal into John’s hip.

“Oh god no. Just….light switch….digging into my back. Bed, bed won’t hurt” John moans, thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand.

How they got into his bedroom, John will never quite know, but eventually he finds himself flat on his back with Sherlock, posh shirt lost somewhere in the journey, looming over him. Sherlock makes quick work of John’s jeans and jumper, leaving John in just his pants, harder than he’d ever been in his life. Finding it almost criminal that Sherlock’s lower body is still clothed, John starts tugging at Sherlock’s jeans. Taking the hint, Sherlock sits up and works his jeans down his narrow hips.

“Are those bees!?!” A laugh bursting from John when he catches sight of Sherlock’s pants.

“Fuck you, I like bees.” Sherlock growls, pushing his pants down as well, and he grinds his cock against John’s still clothed one, claiming his mouth in a heated, messy kiss, all teeth and tongues.

They grind against each other for what feels like hours, but is most likely only minutes, before Sherlock hands slip into John’s pants, starting to pull them down.

“Sherlock! Oh god, Sherlock I don’t know if I have any condoms!” John groans when he’s finally free of his pants.

“Plenty of other stuff we can do that doesn’t require condoms.” Sherlock breathes, still hovering over John.

The distance between them is too great for John, and he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back pulling him down onto him. At the first touch of Sherlock’s hard cock against his own, John lets out a whine he will later never admit too, every inch of skin feels like it’s on fire. Needing the friction, John’s hands move down Sherlock’s back to grip his ass, and knead the soft flesh, pulling Sherlock tighter against himself. Letting out moans that go straight to John’s cock, Sherlock begins to thrust. The slide of Sherlock against him is like nothing he’s ever felt before, and John starts to push back against him, meeting his movements with equal intensity. “Oh Christ!” John whimpers, as Sherlock begins to suck on the side of his neck just below his jaw.

John’s exclamation seems to have an effect on Sherlock, as he begins to pick up his pace, abdominal muscles tensing. Sherlock’s thrusts become erratic, and without warning Sherlock is coming across their stomachs, John swallowing Sherlock’s yell as he cries out. John feeling his own climax build, rolls them over, and with a few fast thrusts, his orgasm crashing over him, his release mixing with Sherlock’s.

It takes them several minutes of aftershocks to come down from their highs. Lying on his side, John pulls Sherlock against him, not caring about the stickiness of their bodies. Sherlock kisses him sloppily, fingers digging into John’s back, John’s hands running along Sherlock’s and up into his now sex messed curls. The kisses and hands begin to slow as John feels the potent combination of alcohol and exhaustion start to set in, and eventually sleep pulls him under, Sherlock still wrapped in his arms.

 

* * *

 

When John wakes the next morning, he is alone. Cleaning up the only evidence he had company last night in the bathroom, John looks in the mirror to see if he looks different, he certainly feels different. Truth be told, John had never actually had sex with a man before. He always knew that he’s attracted to men as well as women, he just hadn’t really met a man that really sparked that kind of need in him, so he just stuck with women. That is, until last night, and as a result, he had the best sex of his life. 

Thankful he doesn't have class or a shift today, John crawls back into bed for a few more hours of sleep, when he sees he has a text message:

_'The invitation to a crime scene still stands. – SH’_

Smiling to himself, John replies:

_'Just name the place, and I’m there – JW’_

 

And with that, John closes his eyes and falls into a deep, content sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the first chapter. Let me know what you think, good or bad, I'm always looking for ways to improve!
> 
> (Also if you notice a misspelling or mistake, tell me that too!)


	2. Being Picturesque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets the chance to see Sherlock at work, and it makes an impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have mentioned this before, but I'm American, and this was not Brit-picked. I've done my best to use British terminology since our boys are British, but please forgive me if I slip up. (Oh, and I write the word 'ass' on purpose because I think there's nothing more pretentious sounding than an American saying 'arse', and I include an American writing it)

Life doesn't seem to change for John. He goes to his classes and studies, he does shifts at the hospital, and he goes to football practice. John feels like he has ‘I've shagged a bloke’ tattooed across his forehead, he feels like his body language is positively screaming that he’s now, without a doubt, officially bisexual. Yet no one seems to notice this monumental shift in John’s world, no one except for Greg. When John shows up for football the following Monday afternoon, Greg has only what can be described as a ‘shit eating grin’ spread across his face. If were to see her, John can only assume that Molly would be sporting a similar excited expression. But, all things considered, life goes on as usual for John.

 

Just entering his flat after a full day of classes, about a week after Molly’s party, John feels his phone buzz. Fishing is out of his pocket, he finds a text message with just an address about two miles away and, 

_'Come at once if convenient – SH'_

Not ten second later, his phone buzzes again.

_'If inconvenient, come anyway – SH'_

Feeling a sudden jolt of excitement, John drops his bag on the couch, and is back out the door and in a cab within minutes.

 

* * *

 

In less than twenty minutes, the cab pulls up to the address, an office building, and John gets out and pays the skeptical driver. Making his way past the flashing blue police lights, and up to the police tape, John is somewhat surprised to see Sherlock having a heated discussion with Greg’s father and some uniformed officers. It’s not that John thought Sherlock had lied to him about his hobby, but it was very different hearing about Sherlock’s crime solving adventures, and actually seeing him standing there doing it. And damn does he look good doing it, the cold February breeze slightly blowing his dark curls, the long coat creating a sleek line to his already tall, lanky body, and the flashing lights illuminating his pale features, giving him an almost iridescent quality. 

Shaking those last thoughts from his head, John steps right up to the police tape, hoping Sherlock will spot him soon. If he’s being honest, he feels a bit awkward just standing there, a bit like a rubbernecker. Finally Sherlock turns, eyes making contact with John’s. If John didn't know better, he could have sworn Sherlock actually brightened. 

“John! You made it!” Sherlock calls, motioning for John to come through. “John, this is DI Lestrade, the only person at the Yard who seems to have at least half a brain in his head. Lestrade, this is…”

“John Watson, I know. How are you son? What are you doing here?” The inspector asks, offering John his hand.

“I’m fine sir. Sherlock and I met at a party, he was telling me all about what he does, and offered to let me tag along. It’s nice to see you again, sir.” John, shaking the proffered hand, then turning to a confused Sherlock, “I play football with Greg, remember?”

“I must have deleted it. Anyway, doesn't matter.” Sherlock says dismissively. “As I was saying, it was murder but I don’t think she was bludgeoned.”

DI Lestrade just sighs, shaking his head at the young detective “Listen Mr. Holmes, you’re a smart kid, and you have helped before, but there are some things we can solve without you. We are professionals, after all. I don’t care what you may have heard on your scanner.”

“Well then you have nothing to lose by letting us in for a look. If you’re so confident, we’re bound to confirm your theory.” Sherlock says, moving towards the front door.

“I really shouldn't be letting two twenty year old kids run free through my crime scene.” The DI says, making no move to stop Sherlock.

“You shouldn't, but you need me, so you do. Come on John.” And with that, Sherlock is through the door, and starting up the steps. John, just shrugging at the inspector, follows Sherlock into the building.

 

“So what do you think?” Sherlock asks when John finally joins him.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, barging into a crime scene. And how was she only discovered now? It’s seven o’clock at night.” John mutters, trying to keep his voice low so as to not disturb the officers and forensics technicians in the room.

“Apparently the office was closed for renovations until tomorrow. Our victim seems to have come in today to get a head start before everyone returned. But I was talking about the body, John. What do you think of the body?” clarifies Sherlock, nodding towards the victim slummed over her desk, a small pool of blood at her forehead.

“Oh, ok, sure. You sure this is alright?” John asks, cautiously moving closer to the woman.

“Yes, but hurry up. We don’t have time to waste; the inspector may change his mind!”

“Alright. Well, female, probably in her mid-thirties. Noticeable head wound. You said the police said she was bludgeoned, so I’d say blunt force trauma, but…” John tapers off.

“But?” Sherlock says, clearly egging John on.

“Well, from what I can see, the size of the wound and amount of blood doesn't seem consistent with blunt force trauma. If anything I’d say she passed out, hit her head on the printer corner, and that’s what caused the injury.” John says, straighten up to look at Sherlock.

“Yes, excellent! Just what I was thinking. What else do you notice?”

“Her skin does have a red-ish tint to it. That could be a result of the heater running; it is rather stuffy in here. Or it could indicate…”

Sherlock interrupts. “Poisoning, exactly. More specifically….”

“Cyanide!” John finished, excitedly. He quickly schools his features, being excited about a poising is a bit not good.

“The tell-tale taste of bitter almonds masked by…” Sherlock looks around the scene “Ah! Her coffee creamer! Whoever made her coffee this morning is our murderer.”

“Fantastic! Did you just solve a murder by looking at the victim for 2 minutes?”

After a brief pause, during which John is certain Sherlock’s posture got even straighter, a brief smile flashing across his face. “Not yet. I still don’t know who did it, give me a second.” 

John watches as Sherlock sweeps around the office, examining the victims desk. His movements far too graceful, reminding John of the other ways in which Sherlock’s body can move. Lost in his thoughts, John doesn't realize Lestrade has joined them, or that Sherlock has started talking again. Quickly clearing his mind, John focuses on Sherlock’s words.

“Her husband’s sister clearly resented the fact that the victim was making her move out of what used to be her and her brother’s flat. She put the cyanide in the victim’s coffee, and tried to mask the taste with almond milk. I suspect it’s been going on for a while, based off the banding on the victims nails. Probably the sister-in-law got tired of waiting, and gave her a larger dose today. Test the coffee to confirm, and question the sister-in-law.” Sherlock says in a flourish

“Ok genius, I can see you’re dying to show off. How did you figure it out?” Asks the inspector, trying to hide a fond smile.

“The photo on her desk shows the victim, her husband and another woman sitting in a living room. The other women clearly resembles the husband, so his sister.” Says Sherlock, positively beaming. “You can see from the background, the flat was most likely decorated by a woman, but clearly not by our victim, if the décor of this office is any indication. There are some masculine elements to the flat, so it’s shared by the brother and sister. There, also, if you look carefully at the sister-in-law, she has an ID tag clipped to her jeans with the logo of Biolab Medical, meaning she as access to cyanide. The victim has rental ads bookmarked on her desktop, but the flats are more fitting of a single individual as opposed to a couple. Clearly they’re for the sister-in-law. And finally,” now Sherlock is practically vibrating with excitement, John’s actually worried he may injure himself. “There is a shopping list in the victims bag, on which are several lactose free items, including almond milk, but looking in her desk drawer there are dairy based creamers. The sister-in-law is most likely lactose intolerant, and our victim wouldn't question her giving her coffee with almond milk instead of actual milk.”

“Amazing! That was absolutely amazing!” John wouldn't be surprised if he had stars in his eyes, but watching Sherlock unravel the murder is a marvel.

“It’s really all just a matter of looking around you, and putting it all together.” Sherlock mumbles, color rising in his cheeks as he avoids John’s eyes.

“Well, it certainly makes my job easier, kid. Let me just get someone to collect her coffee” The inspector laughs, leaving John and Sherlock alone for a moment.

“Quick John, distract the others! I’m going to get a hair sample, maybe some nails if I’m lucky. I want to do some tests.” Sherlock says, pulling out a Swiss Army knife, and small baggy.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You can’t tamper with evidence. You’re going to get us arrested!” John hisses, but he’s already moving towards the officers, ready to divert their attention.

“Nonsense, they’ll never notice.” Unfortunately for Sherlock one of the officers does notice, and the two have to make a run for it.

 

“Does Lestrade know where you live?” Sherlock asks, as he turns down an alley way.

“Greg? Yeah, I think so.” Answers John, trying to keep pace with Sherlock long legs.

“Not him! Lestrade the Elder!” An annoyed Sherlock replies.

“No, not that I know of.”

Grabbing John by the wrist, Sherlock takes off in a full sprint. “Good! Follow me!”

 

* * *

 

They make it back to John’s flat in record time. Slumped against the wall, attempting to catch their breath, the two begin to giggle

“I never thought I’d help solve a murder, and then have to run from the police thirty second later. That was…” But whatever John was going to say is lost when Sherlock abruptly shoves his tongue down John’s throat, and begins pushing off John’s jacket, and clawing at his t-shirt. After a few shocked moments, John begins to respond, hands immediately tugging at Sherlock’s scarf, and attempting to divest Sherlock of his coat.

“Wh…wh…what happened to you and I just being a onetime thing?” John gasps as he comes to his senses, and pulls his mouth from Sherlock’s.

“I never said it had to be one time. I just don’t want a relationship.” Sherlock practically purrs, pressing his arousal against John’s.

“So, fuck buddies?” John says with a heady laugh, pressing back

“If you want to be picturesque about it, yes. If you’re amenable, or course.” Sherlock adds before latching on to the juncture between John’s jaw and ear.

“Oh God yes. Just don’t stop doing that!” Moans John, starting to writhe, trapped between Sherlock and the wall.

“Good. Now fuck me!” Sherlock commands. In one swift motion, Sherlock removes John’s shirt and pushes him towards the bedroom.

 

John’s fingers are still working at the buttons of Sherlock’s unbelievably tight shirt when they collapse onto his bed. Once the offending garment is off, Sherlock then rolls them so he’s beneath John, letting out a deep groan as John grinds down on him. Sherlock quickly lifts his head to capture John’s mouth, kissing him fast and hard, biting down on his lower lip. It’s not long before jeans and pants join the shirts on the floor, and the two begin to rock against each other as before, breathing heavily into each other’s mouths.

Gasping for breath, John gazes down at Sherlock. “You’re going to take the lead here. I've only ever done this with girls.” He admits, slightly embarrassed.

“Then we’re both newbies.” Sherlock’s voice sounding like silk, his hand slowly running along John’s chest and abdomen.

“What do you mea….” But John is cut off by Sherlock’s mouth claiming his again, and his fist wrapping around John’s aching length. For several frantic minutes, they lay there grinding and stroking each other

“Lube! We need lube now!” Sherlock all but yells.

John, forcing himself to let go of Sherlock, fumbles with the top drawer of his bedside table, grabbing a small bottle. Sherlock grabs it from John’s hand, flips the cap, coats his fingers, and begins prepping himself. It is far and away the most erotic sight John has ever seen. Sherlock laying beneath him, finger buried deep within himself, his moans and gasps going straight to John’s cock. Just the sight leaves John’s breathless.

“Newbie, huh?” John laughs, as he begins to stroke them together, in time with Sherlock’s finger.

“You don’t need a partner to be penetrated” Sherlock answers, gasping as he adds a second finger. They keep stroking and thrusting, until Sherlock is about to add a third finger, and John takes over. He can feel Sherlock’s tight muscles putting pressure against his fingers, and he can only imagine what it will feel like around his cock. John eventually brushes Sherlock’s prostate, earning himself a broken off yell. After a few more brushes, He can feel Sherlock start to tense and arch off the bed,

“You! Now! I need you NOW!” Sherlock yells, his words broken up by loud deep groans. “Please god tell me you got condoms in the last week!?” He whimpers

Grabbing a condom and rolling it on, John finds the lube again slicking himself up, careful not to use too much pressure, afraid he may come then and there. Positioning himself at Sherlock’s entrance, he slowly starts to push in. Sherlock is so incredibly tight around his cock, John has to be careful not to hurt Sherlock by going too fast.

“I’m not a fragile piece of crystal. Fucking, fuck me!” growls Sherlock. Bringing his lags up to wrap around John’s waist, Sherlock’s hands falling to John’s ass, attempting to force him in deeper. With one fast thrust, John is almost completely buried in Sherlock. “Oh GOD!” Sherlock yells whether in pain or pleasure.

“Are you ok?” John asks, panicking he’d hurt Sherlock by moving too fast.

“Yes, oh Jesus, yes!” Sherlock pants “Do it again, HARDER!” lifting his hips to meet John’s, taking  him in even deeper. Taking this as his queue, John begins to pull out and sink back in. John’s thrust getting harder and faster, until he pulls out almost completely, then burying himself to the hilt in Sherlock. Each thrust eliciting moans from both John and Sherlock, interrupting their heated kissing to the point they were simply panting and groaning into each other’s open mouths. This goes on for a while, John sinking into Sherlock, and John can feel the tension building in both himself and Sherlock.

“Wait, wait!” Sherlock stops them, his hands lightly pushing on John’s shoulders

“What’s wrong?” John breaths, the panic starting to return

“Nothing, I just want to come fucking myself on you. I want to ride you.” Sherlock’s voice sounding a bit raw. John pulls out, and it’s almost painful to do so, whimpering at the loss of Sherlock’s tight heat, Sherlock whining as well, and rolls over, pulling Sherlock on top of him. After several rough kisses, Sherlock sits up and positions himself over John, sinking down onto him, both groaning in relief to be connected again. Once seated, Sherlock begins to roll his hips, hands on John’s chest to steady himself. As Sherlock’s movements begin to devolve into rapid, uncoordinated flicks of his hips, John’s left hand lets go of where it was balled up in the sheet, to Sherlock’s hard, throbbing cock, squeezing him in time with Sherlock’s flicks. It only takes a few short moments before Sherlock goes completely ridged, back making a perfect arch, and he’s coming in long hot ribbons across John’s hand, painting his stomach. John’s vision goes white at the feel of Sherlock’s muscles contracting around him, his own climax hitting him like a freight train, and they ride out their orgasms together.

 

Breathing heavily, Sherlock slips off John and rolls to lie next to him. Tying off the condom, and throwing it in the bin next to his bed, John grabs his discarded pants and starts to wipe up Sherlock and himself.

“So…that was your first time, huh.” John says, throwing his pants back on the ground.

“Technically it was your first time doing that too.” Sherlock answers, still a little out of breath, head turning towards John.

“Yeah, but I've done something a bit similar.” John says, turning to lie on his side, admiring a thoroughly shagged Sherlock Holmes. “So why me? Clearly you’ve done other things with other people, so why this with me? Why now?”

“I didn’t find anyone interesting enough to be willing to actually try it. Oral and manual stimulation always sufficed before. But I had wanted to know what penetrative sex with a partner would feel like.” Sherlock answers matter-of-factly.

“Interesting enough, huh? That’s high praise!” John jokes.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just mean that when you open your mouth, I don’t immediately want to kill myself.”

“Wow, what crawled up your butt?” Laughs John.

“I believe that was you.” Sherlock retorts and both burst out laughing, the laughter eventually turning into lazy kisses. After several minutes of roaming hands and exploring mouths, Sherlock starts to pull away.

“Well, as fulfilling as that was, I have to go. I want to start analyzing those samples.” He says, sitting up.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” John sleepily tells him, the day’s events finally catching up to him.

“Poison waits for no man, I’m afraid. I’ll text if I get another case, and we can do this again.”

 

With one last kiss, Sherlock gathers up his clothes and is gone, leaving John’s bed tragically empty, and John with a hollow feeling he really doesn't care to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the boys seem to have come to an agreement. Let's see how that goes!
> 
> I know it's childish, but I giggled when I wrote the "what crawled up your butt" part. I still giggle when I read over it.
> 
> Comments are always welcome!


	3. Progress and Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's little arrangement starts to turn into something different, not that either of them seem notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the future of the British government makes an appearance.

After that second night, John and Sherlock sort of fall into a routine. John and Sherlock meet up, usually at a crime scene, Sherlock marvels John with his powers of observation, and they head back to John’s, sometimes Sherlock’s, so that John can show Sherlock just how marvelous he finds him. Sometimes, when Sherlock is particularly brilliant, John starts to show him in an alleyway on the way to his flat.

That’s not to say there isn’t a bit of variation thrown in. Sometimes they meet at the library so Sherlock can show John some cold cases DI Lestrade has given him, those days they solve four or five cases in one sitting. A lot of times they stop for something to eat, John insisting they need to keep up their energy. There are nights where one or both don’t really feel like sex, so they part at the crime scene. There are even a few nights where one of them, usually John, gets a text just requesting a hook-up, but those nights don’t happen too often. Not that either will admit it, but they both like spending time together before….spending time together. But one thing is for certain, when they see each other, they usually fall into bed, and in the morning they both woke up alone.

 

However, it’s not long before things start to progress, to change.

 

* * *

 

Roughly two months into their…arrangement, John is leaving the hospital when a black car with tinted windows, rolls to a stop in front of him. A large man, everything about him screams ‘bodyguard’, steps out of the driver’s seat, and opens the back door, signaling for John to get in. John’s not an idiot, and he attempts to go on his way, but he’s no match for the driver. Before he knows it, John finds himself sitting in the back of the car, possibly heading for his death, and all he can think is ‘I’m supposed to meet Sherlock at the Yard.’

Now John is sure he’s going to die. The car pulls into an empty warehouse, and when the car door opens John met by a very well dress man, leveling him with a look that could freeze blood. The man is tall, with auburn hair that will be receding in a few years time, and though he is probably only in his late twenties, he already looks like he holds the fate of worlds in his hands.

“Mr. Watson, a pleasure to meet you at last. Do have a seat.” The man says, gesturing towards to a couple of folding chair to his left.

“I think I’d rather stand thanks. Actually, if I could leave right now, that’d be better.”John replies, attempting to make himself as tall as possible.

“Please, Mr. Watson. I’d prefer it if we could sit.” And for some reason, though he doesn't want to, John finds himself sitting across from his kidnapper.

“There, isn't that more comfortable?” Condescension dripping from the man’s words. “Now, what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?” The man now taking on a much more sinister demeanor.

“I’m fairly sure that’s none of your business.” John snaps

“Quite the contrary Mr. Watson, the goings on of Sherlock Holmes is very much my business. And now you appear. You meet him at a party, start solving crimes with him, and though I wish it were not so, your _nocturnal_ activities with him, are no secret to me. So I’ll ask again, what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?” The man’s voice getting hard.

“You’re his brother aren't you? You’re Mycroft.” Of course this is the horrible, meddlesome older brother Sherlock complains about. The posh, other worldly quality should have tipped him off.

“I see Sherlock has spoken of me. Pray tell Mr. Watson, what else has Sherlock told you of our family?” Mycroft’s voice calming, taking on a soothing quality.

“You, Sherlock, your sister, and your mother are all highly observant. Your father is high up in the government, and is grooming you to take over for him. Your mother is a highly respected mathematician, and she wishes Sherlock would have flowed in her footsteps. And Sherlock has a strained relationship with you and his twin, who’s off studying abroad.” Why is John saying this? He doesn't owe Mycroft anything.

“I see, and that is all?” He asks, receiving only a quick nod from John. “And do you plan on continuing your association with my brother?”

Before John can answer, John’s phone buzzes, indicating he had a text

_'Where are you? You should have been here 20 minutes ago – SH'_

“For as long as he wants me around.” John snaps his mouth shut. He wasn't ready to admit that to even himself, let alone to Mycroft Holmes.

“I see. Well tread carefully, Mr. Watson. Tread carefully” And with that John is back in the car, and on his way to The New Scotland Yard.

 

* * *

 

“He did what?!” Sherlock all but yells when John explains to him why he was late. “He had no right. Just because his life is so mind numbingly dull, he thinks he can mess with mine? I could kill him. I will kill him.”

“It’s really fine Sherlock. No, really. He just went a little bit overboard in the protective older brother bit.” John says, trying to placate the agitated detective.

“But there’s nothing to be protective about!”

“Yes, well we know that. But as you said, Mycroft is clearly a bit slow.” That seems to calm Sherlock down, and he was able to focus on the serial burglaries he was able to get them in on.

 

That night when they get back to John’s flat, and after some Thai takeaway, John lets Sherlock take him for the first time. He isn't quite sure why, but he feels like Sherlock needs it. Sherlock needs to know that no matter how much he meddles, Mycroft is not going ruin whatever it is going on between John and Sherlock. Also, John will admit that he had been curious about bottoming ever since he started up with Sherlock. And just like everything else with Sherlock, it is a revelation, a whole new type of pleasure he didn't know was possible, though John’s pretty sure he prefers it the other way around.

 

When John wakes the next morning he finds himself still entwined with a sleeping Sherlock, wild curls tickling his chest. After that night, they start spending the night after they have sex, waking up to lazy caresses, and leaving together in the mornings. Neither of them says anything about this new development.

 

* * *

 

It isn't until a month later, three months into their arrangement, that Sherlock and John first spend the night together without having sex.

 

They are tailing the daughter of a wealthy banker who suspects she is stealing from him to fuel a drug habit. She’s actually running an illegal gambling ring right under her father’s nose, and it is actually a few of the players who have sticky fingers. As it turns out, the ring is also being used as a front for even more illegal dealings by the Clerkenwell crime syndicate.  Which leads John and Sherlock to spending 32 hours parked in a rented car outside of the daughter’s flat, waiting for a known member of the syndicate to show up. Strictly speaking, it’s actually the Gangs and Organized Crime Unit, that are staking out the flat, but that doesn't stop John and Sherlock from observing. According to Sherlock, “When are we ever going to get the chance to be part of taking down an honest to god crime family? And besides, we’re just watching. We’re not _really_ involved.”

John has to admit, even thought it is incredibly stupid, it is one of the most exciting things he’s ever done. Exciting and exhausting. Cars are not the most comfortable places in which to sleep. After they take the car back, they return to John’s flat. Sherlock is still talking a mile a minute about the case, and though John is dead on his feet, he could never bring himself to stop Sherlock when he’s so alive. After microwaving some leftovers, John collapses next to Sherlock. Finally, after about a half hour of dissecting the case, and the adrenaline has warn off, Sherlock decides there’s something else he’d like to be doing with his mouth, and starts to kiss John. Evidently the case has tired Sherlock out more than he let on and the kisses turn slow and sleepy, and soon they stop all together as both boys would rather sleep. John wakes a few hours later, still tangled together with Sherlock. It’s still the middle of the night, so he gently rouses Sherlock, and they shuffle to John’s much more comfortable bed to sleep till morning.

 

Once again, neither John nor Sherlock see fit to talk about this most recent development. But Sherlock does start staying over three or four nights a week. If they spend time together during the day, it’s a sure bet that Sherlock will stay the night with John, sex or no sex. Sometimes they don’t even have to have done anything together, John just gets a text saying Sherlock’s coming over, and that’s that. Sherlock claims that John’s flat is quieter and closer to the school, so he can get more work done. They both know the noise level is almost exactly the same and it’s only a couple blocks closer, but they don’t seem to care. Neither wants to talk about it, so they don’t.

 

* * *

 

As time wears on, John and Sherlock’s relationship fundamentally changes from that of when they first met at Molly and Greg’s party. It happens so subtly that neither seems to notice. What was once going to a crime scene and getting each other off a couple times a week, has shifted to spending most days together doing anything or nothing, talking for hours, or being comfortably silent. There are still the crime scenes, and there is still a fair amount of getting off, but it has turned into so much more. It becomes Sherlock wrapping his arms around John waist as John makes them tea in the morning, and John rubbing Sherlock’s scalp to relieve the tension brought on by “all the tedious people.” Yet they say nothing.

Just because John and Sherlock don’t notice or acknowledge how they've changed, doesn't mean others haven’t. John thinks only after her first date with Greg, has he’d seen Molly look as excited as she does when he shows up to the lab and spends the afternoon helping Sherlock. When Sherlock shows up with Molly to watch one of his football games, Greg’s _oh so funny_ little comments last a week. When they aren't together, John has to endure everyone asking where Sherlock is, and apparently Sherlock is in very much the same boat. No matter how many times John reminds them that he and Sherlock are just friends, no one seems to listen. It’s even more difficult to convince the select few who know, or strongly suspect, about extent of their….friendship.

And still, when someone automatically assumes they’re a couple, they refuse to talk about it.

 

* * *

 

Six months after their first meeting finds John chasing after Sherlock who, yet again, has taken off after a suspect. John turns the corner just in time to see the suspect, knife in hand, lunging at a cornered Sherlock. Next thing John knows, he has the suspect on the ground, hands pined behind his back, and John’s knee digging into his spine.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?!” John yells to Sherlock, voice tinged with panic. “Sherlock, answer me! Are you alright!?!”

“I’m fine. It’s just a graze, I swear.” Sherlock assures John, clutching the gash on his left arm.

 

It doesn't take long for the police to arrive to haul the suspect away, and John and Sherlock return to John’s flat. Sherlock refuses to go to A&E, insisting John can patch him up. And though he is fuming at Sherlock, John gently washes the wound, sutures it up, and carefully wraps it in a clean bandage. Thank god he has a full first aid kit.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” John asks, his tone deathly serious, almost daring Sherlock to lie to him.

“No, just the arm. It’s really not that big of a deal. I don’t see why you’re so worried.”

“Not that big of a deal? You don’t see why I was worried? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! If I were even a few seconds slower, you could have been dead!” John says, visibly shaking.

“But I’m fine, John. It was all ok.” Sherlock quietly tries reassures John.

“Sure, but what about next time? What if next time we’re not so lucky? I swear to god, Sherlock, having you as a best friend is going to turn me grey.” John chuckles weakly, trying to cover for his emotional outburst.

Sherlock is absolutely still for a few moments. “I’m…I’m your best friend?”

“Of course you are. I _willingly_ spend almost all my time with you, who else would it be? You’re my best friend.” A warm smile spreads across John’s face.  “So please be careful. I can’t lose you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn't say another word, he just takes John’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply, desperately. He then leads John into the bedroom, where they slowly strip each other, John being mindful of Sherlock’s bandage. John is then pulled down on top of Sherlock, mouth only leaving his to breathe, and proceeds to take Sherlock slowly and gently, focusing on the sensations, drawing them out.

They have had sex dozens of times before, but this time feels different, more intense, more intimate. John can feel that Sherlock is teetering on the precipice of his orgasm, and with one quick thrust, he pushes him over the edge. Head thrown back, back bowing off the bed, Sherlock shouts those three little words, “John! Oh god, John, I love you!” And it is at this precise moment that John’s climax takes him, his mind going blissfully blank.

When his senses finally return, John pushes himself up and off Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak. What he’s going to say, John isn't sure. But before he can get a word out, Sherlock pulls John back down, preemptively shutting him up with a kiss. And so John doesn't say anything, instead pouring everything he feels into the kiss.

 

Four days later, they sit on the edge of John’s bed while John examines Sherlock’s arm. It’s healing nicely, and John suspects it may not even leave a scar. But to be on the safe side, he decides to kiss each suture. You can never be too careful, after all. Once the cut is seen to, John continues and kisses every inch of Sherlock’s body, removing his clothing as he goes. John pays particular attention to a small freckle on Sherlock’s right hip, triggering an intoxicating mixture of moans and heady laughter from Sherlock. John then moves from Sherlock’s hips, to take Sherlock into his mouth, slowly running his tongue up and down the shaft, and lapping at the leaking head. Just before John can bring him to completion, Sherlock stops him. He then divests John of his clothes, before pulling John into his lap and takes them both in hand. They fall over the edge together, John panting ‘I love you’ over and over into Sherlock’s neck.

Once they both come down, and clean up, Sherlock kisses John deeply. Just like with Sherlock’s, neither says a word about John’s declaration. This isn’t the last time either of them says ‘I love you’, but each time it is said in the heat of the moment, and each time they choose to ignore it.

 

* * *

 

The New Year rolls around, and John decides to appropriate the skull of an unused research skeleton for Sherlock. He had been eyeing it whenever he comes to see John. If it happens to coincide with Sherlock’s 21st birthday, well that’s just a crazy twist of fate.

And coincidences seem to abound, because two months later, Sherlock takes a case investigating an assistant manager for West Ham United. So what if John has supported West Ham his entire life? And so what if the case requires them to attend a game that happens to fall on John’s 22nd birthday? A case is case, no matter how fortuitous the timing.

 

That’s the thing about fate and luck, they have a nasty habit of turning when you least expect it. John is happier than he has ever been in his life, and by the looks of it, so is Sherlock. But happiness can always run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed their happy relationship, because the angst starts next chapter!
> 
> But don't worry, it's not too bad. Not beat your chest, "Why God, why?" angst.
> 
> Once again, apologies for the poorly written smut and any typos.


	4. Everything Falls Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When graduation rolls around, John makes some decisions about the future and Sherlock reacts badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth time, I have no idea how medical school works in the UK but I know it's not like this, but let's all put on our pretending caps and say that it does.
> 
> Also, I know army doctors aren't sent out in the field, but for the sake of the story, they bend the rules for John since he's so good.

John Watson is the happiest he’s been in a long time, possibly ever.  He’s about to graduate at the top of his class, he’s running around London solving crime, there’s a wonderful _something_ between him and Sherlock, and now he thinks he has finally found what he’s meant to do with his life. So when John arrives at the pub for lunch with Greg to catch up, the smile on his face and spring in his step is hard to miss.

“What’s got you so happy, Sunshine? Sherlock finally propose?” Greg teases as he sits down.

“Come on, Greg,” John sighs “How many times do I have to say it, Sherlock and I….”

“I know, I know. You and Sherlock ‘aren’t a couple.’ Hate to break it to you, mate, but you’ve been in a relationship for over a year now, and a pretty serious one at that. Just make it official.” Greg says, receiving only a glare from John. “Alright, fine, I’ll shut up. But seriously, what’s got you in such a good mood?”

“Well, I was going to tell Sherlock and my Mum first. Oh shut up.” John says, shoving Greg as he raises his eyebrows. “I just got back from speaking to a recruiter, and I’m going to join the army. I can help save lives on the battlefield; really put my ability to good use!” John finishes, positively beaming.

“Oh John, that’s…that’s great. I’m happy for you.” Greg’s smile faltering.

“What is it?”

“Well, is this really the best time? I mean, considering everything going on right now.”

“It’s the exact right time. People are dying every day, and I can make a difference.”

“Ok, I see your point. Now you know I hate these types of conversations, but what about things between you and Sherlock?” Greg asks.

“What about them?”

“I know you both claim it’s nothing serious, but everyone knows that’s a lie. If you’re about to leave for an active combat zone, it’s best not to have any loose, _undefined_ , threads hanging around.  I think you and Sherlock need to be honest with each other, and decide what you both want. You can’t leave not knowing what you are to each other. There can’t be any questions or what if’s.”

Before John can respond, Molly arrives, and Greg quickly drops the subject, ending the conversation. When John gets back from the bathroom, he sees the couple sitting with their heads together, thankfully neither brings up the topic, but from Molly’s tight smile, he can guess she knows. Later, John can’t really say he remembers what they all talked about at lunch, his head a bit preoccupied.

 

* * *

 

John spends the rest of the day thinking about his conversation with Greg. But there’s really nothing to think about, he knows what he wants. John knows he loves Sherlock, probably has since that first crime scene. And he’s fairly sure Sherlock loves him too. John wants to carry a photo of them together, and tell anyone and everyone that it’s him and his boyfriend, the man he loves. He wants to have someone to write too, knowing he’s missed and loved. He wants to come home on leave, and be greeted by Sherlock’s arms and kisses. John wants to be with Sherlock, totally, completely, and unquestionably. So John sends Sherlock a text, asking if he’s planning on coming over, and sets about making a plan. John is going to tell him about finally deciding on a career path, and then ask Sherlock if he wants to make things real between them. John has never been more nervous in his life, and he’s never been more excited.

 

It’s seven o’clock and if John knows him, and he does, Sherlock will be arriving at the flat within the next seven minutes. Four minutes later, he hears a noise outside his door, but no knock. Looking through the peep-hole, John sees Sherlock just standing there, fist poised to knock, taking deep breaths.

“What are you doing just standing there? Get in you burk.” John says, flinging open the door, barely noticing the look of shock on Sherlock’s face as he shuffles in.

“I got some food from that Greek place you like.” John calls from the kitchen, as Sherlock settles himself on the couch.

John comes back into the sitting room to find Sherlock fidgeting with his hands. After a few moments, Sherlock looks up at John, a nervous smile on his face, and takes a deep breath. “John, there’s…ah…there’s something I want to tell you.”

“There’s actually something I want to talk to you about.” John laughs

“Oh, you…you go first.”

“You sure?” John asks, moving to sit next to Sherlock.

“Yeah. Go, what is it you want to tell me?” Usually if Sherlock has something on his mind, he says it, but for some reason he’s being uncharacteristically considerate. But John’s too nervous to really think about it, he’s been planning what he’s going to say next, for the last few hours.

“Ok, you know how I’m graduating next month.” Sherlock nods. “Well, I think I finally figured out what I want to do next. I know how I can use my ability to cause the most good.”

“And what is that?” Sherlock asks quietly, eyes not leaving John’s for a second.

John takes a deep breath, “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to join the army to serve as a combat doctor.”

Sherlock is off the couch and towering over John within a matter of seconds. “You’re going to do what?!” he exclaims.

“I’m going to go and help treat those injured fighting.”

“No. No you can’t leave. There’s a war going on, don’t you know that?” Sherlock starts pacing back and forth, not even looking at John. “What would even possess you to join?”

“Of course I do, that’s why I want to go. I can do a lot of good over there.” John says, trying to calm Sherlock down.

“You can do good here. People get hurt and sick in London all the time.”

“Yes, but they don’t have as many resources there as we do here, so I can really use my ability to its fullest potential.”

“Please, the military wants people with abilities for stuff like camouflage, or cell regeneration, or night vision.”

“And healing. They need people there who can treat and save the wounded.” John reminds Sherlock.

“So what? Your ability is meager at best.” Sherlock says, an edge coming to his voice.

“Stop trying to insult me, we both know I’m an advanced healer. You’re just scared.”

Sherlock’s pacing comes to an abrupt stop. “Scared? Why would I be scared? I’m not the weak-minded moron charging head first into a war zone, trying to act out some misguided hero fantasy.”

“Because someone you care about is heading into possible danger,” John yells. “God Sherlock, this is not how I wanted this to go.” He says with a sad laugh, looking to the ceiling in an attempt to compose himself.

“Care about you? I don’t care about you. You’re just a distraction.” Sherlock’s cold sneer cutting into John.

“Why are you doing this?” John asks, feeling tears form in his eyes. “I know you love me, you know I love you, that I’m in love with you. I know we’ve never talked about it, but we’ve both said it, we’ve both heard it.” John finally looking at Sherlock again. “Stop pushing me away, it’s not going to change that I’m joining the Army. But it’s not forever, I’ll have leave, and eventually I won’t re-enlist, and we can be together for good.” His arms moving to hold Sherlock.

“You actually believe I love you. I only said those things to keep you around.” Sherlock says, pushing John’s hands away. “You’re a decent fuck, and having you available meant I didn’t need to go looking for someone, I could concentrate on what’s actually important. YOU. WERE. CONVENIENT.” He snarls.

Not knowing what else to do, John grabs Sherlock by the collar, and kisses him forcefully pouring every emotion into it, letting the kiss say everything that had until now, been unspoken. It takes a moment, but John can feel Sherlock kiss back, mouth opening slightly to accept John’s desperate lips.

“You can’t deny that Sherlock. You can’t deny what we have, so stop trying. Please don’t do this to us,” John whispers.

“There’s nothing to deny. There is no ‘we’, no ‘us’. You mean nothing to me.” Sherlock’s words cold and cruel as he pulls himself out of John’s grasp “Have fun serving Queen and Country, don’t get shot. Or do, I don’t give a fuck.” And with that, Sherlock storms out, but not before John sees tears start to form in his eyes.

John debates going after Sherlock, begging him to come back and admit he was lying. But instead he stays put.  As John stands in his sitting room, after laying his heart on the line, and watching the man he loves walk out of his life, the tears begin to fall.

 

* * *

 

The day after everything falls apart, John returns from class, just because his personal life is in shambles doesn’t mean John’s going to let his school work suffer, to find his flat as been cleared of everything Sherlock ever left. Clearly Sherlock stopped by when he was out, and sure enough the key John gave him is sitting on his desk. He’ll have to figure out a way of returning his key to Sherlock’s place, but he doesn't want to think about that now.

Wandering around his flat, John is surprised by how much he had become accustomed to Sherlock’s things. Gone are the random ‘barrowed’ police files, Sherlock’s textbooks, the assorted clothes, and his ridiculously expensive soaps. John’s flat feels empty now; without Sherlock, John feels empty. Walking into his bedroom, that’s John spots it sticking out from behind his bed. One of Sherlock’s scarves must have been overlooked. Blue cashmere with a slight checked pattern, it’s one of John’s favorite, one of Sherlock’s too. John should probably return it to him, but he can’t bring himself to part with it. Holding it up to his nose, John can still detect Sherlock’s smell, and everything he’s feeling crashes over him again. Clutching to the scarf like a lifeline, John gives in to his sorrow, and lets himself cry.

 

* * *

 

The following month is the most difficult and loneliest of John’s life. Things weren’t even this bad when his father died, at least then they knew it was coming. This is his last month of university, John should be spending it with friends, enjoying the time they had before everyone starts spreading out in different directions. He should be spending this time with Sherlock. Instead he is alone, avoiding all of his and Sherlock’s haunts.

The most difficult part, aside from being separated from Sherlock, is letting people know that they’d had a ‘falling out’, so that is why Sherlock is no longer attached to his hip. Fortunately he doesn’t have to say anything to Molly, she seemed to know the second she saw John’s face, or maybe Sherlock already said something to her. And if Molly knew, Greg knew. As if by some miracle, they don’t try to get John to talk about it, they are supportive, but don’t talk about Sherlock. That doesn’t stop the hurt, they remind him so much of Sherlock, having met him at their party, but it helps.

 

* * *

 

When graduation rolls around, John is stuck putting on a fake smile and feigning excitement. Just because he feels hallow inside, doesn’t mean he’s going to ruin this important day for everyone else. Looking into the crowd, seeing his mum beaming with pride, seeing Harry, Molly, and Greg, all there to support him, makes him almost forget about the constant dull ache dominating his life, almost.

After the ceremony, as people are running around exchanging congratulations and hugs, John catches a glimpse of black curls. For a spit second he allows himself to hope, to hope that Sherlock has come to tell him he loves him, that he was just upset, and has come to tell John he wants to make things work between them. John will tell him he is sorry too, for just springing it on him, he will then take Sherlock over to introduce him to his mum, and everything will be right in the world. But just as quickly he saw the curls, they are gone and the ache floods back in full force.

 

* * *

 

The weekend after graduation, John packs up his flat and moves back in with his mum to wait for his orders. They come not long after, so John begins preparing for life in the army, and starts making his goodbyes and empty promises to keep in touch.  

 

A week before he’s set to leave for training, Greg organizes a little farewell get-together. And after an evening of listening to everyone’s well wishes, being told to ‘make Lizzie proud’, and staving off the advances of friends of friends who had obvious uniform fetishes and wanted to ‘get in on the ground floor’, John finds himself sitting in the corner talking with Molly.

“I mean, it’s not as exciting as going off to be an army doctor, but the idea of my last year of University is pretty exciting. For me at least,” Molly says

“It is a big deal. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not!” John smiles, thankful to be talking about something other than himself or the army. “Do you have any ideas about what you’re going to do next?”

“It’s a little early, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to continue on with pathology. Play to my strengths, right?” she laughs. “I hope I can get into a program here in London, with Greg here with at the Met and all.”

“Staying here for Greg, huh? That serious?”

“It’s London, I’d want to stay even if it weren't for Greg. I’m not saying we’re planning anything, I’m only 21 after all, but we’ve been together for two years and things are still great. And I know he’d support me wherever I go, but why deal with the strain of long distance if we don’t have to.”

“Yeah, distance can kill things.” John sighs

“Oh no, John! No, I didn't mean that. I’m sorry, I didn't mean to imply...” Molly stammers

“It’s fine. Really,” John says, trying to reassure her. “And it wasn't even the distance thing that was the real issue.”

“Ok, I’m sorry, John but I have to ask. Have told him when you’re actually leaving?”

“No. But it’s a moot point, he won’t care. He made it pretty clear how things are, what we are. Why embarrass myself further. I’m actually surprised you or Greg didn’t mention it.”

“ Well, Greg did want to, but I put a stop to that. It should come from you. And he would want to know, I don’t care what he said to you. Sherlock Holmes is an idiot,” John winces at the first mention of Sherlock’s name. “This is the man who thinks we have a king, and that the Sun goes around the Earth.  He’s a genius, but sometimes he has no idea what he’s saying or feeling. Just think about telling him, if only for the sake of closure.” Molly finishes, giving John’s hand a squeeze.

“Alright, alright, I’ll _think_ about it. But just because it’s you asking.” John says, giving Molly what is meant to be a reassuring smile.

“That’s all I ask.”

 

That night, John caves and sends off a text.

 

' _My train leaves the 20 th at 2:54 from King’s Cross. I’d like to at least get the chance to say goodbye. – JW '_

 

Before he knows it, the 20th has arrives, and John is standing on the train station platform with his family. As the clock creeps closer to 2:50, and no sign of Sherlock, John hugs his crying mother and Harry, and boards the train. It was a stupid hope anyway, but at least he got his answer, Sherlock doesn't care about him.

The train pulls out of the station, and the platform soon empties, leaving a lone figure half hidden behind a pillar, still watching the now empty tracks.

 

********

Life goes on for John, if you can call it that.

 

After training, John is sent to Afghanistan and quickly gains a reputation. Due to his ability, he is thought to be nothing short of a miracle worker, saving the lives of those many others wrote off as lost causes. If a solider comes in with even the faintest pulse, sometimes not even that, they’re brought to John. It gets the point that the definition of death is ‘if John Watson can’t bring them back.’ He even starts being sent into the field to give more immediate help to those injured. The army dreads when his leave rolls around, losing their best doctor for the duration. Though they don’t have to be without for long, John taking minimal leave, and often cutting it short. After John’s mother passes away three years after he joined, John finds there’s not much London has to offer.

John saves countless lives, returning sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, back to their loved ones. This is exactly why John joined in the first place, to make a positive difference, and though he thrives on the action and adrenalin, John always feels that something is lacking. And though he desperately wishes he could forget the reason, he simply can’t.

After the disaster that was his time with Sherlock, John swears never to allow himself to get into that type of situation again. Feelings no longer enter the pictures when it comes to sex. Sure he likes his partners, but he makes it clear that it goes no further than getting each other off. He also makes it a rule that he never has sex with the same person twice, not that he’s ever wanted to. Everyone seems to know that something happened in John’s past, but they never ask, and he never explains. And that’s how he earned his second reputation, the resident heartbreaker.

 

When Britain finally pulls out of Afghanistan, John is first to volunteer to be transferred to Iraq. John claims it’s because there are more lives to be saved there, but really it’s that he knows there’s nothing in London for him to come home too but painful memories,

Not even a month after being transferred, John is in the field, tending to casualties of a roadside bomb, when his shoulder explodes in a burst of white-hot searing pain. The shock sets in before he can even think about what to do for himself, and loses consciousness. The medic with him calls for back up, and does the best he can to stop the bleeding, but he’s no John Watson.

By the time John is taken to the medical unit, he’s lost a lot of blood, and an infection has already started to set in. The rest of the medical team is able to gain control of the infection, but not before John develops a raging fever. He spends several days slipping in and out of consciousness. And if he happens to call out for Sherlock at the height of his fever, he is completely unaware, and no one ever tells him.

 

Because of the way the bullet entered his shoulder, in conjunction with the infection, John’s dominant hand is rendered completely useless for trauma and battlefield surgery. So, just over nine and half years after hugging his mother and sister goodbye, John returns to England with a shaking left hand, a limp, and a complete lack of direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, John's train is supposed to be leaving on June 20th at 2:54 pm, which happens to be my birthday and birth minute (though this is in London, and I was born in PDT). And that's about the most self insert as we'll get.
> 
> Next up, John's back in London, and meets some old and new faces!


	5. Happenstance and Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to London, and meets the elusive third Holmes sibling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little warning, there is some brief gendered verbal assault and aborted physical assault in this chapter. It's really not bad and over in a blink of an eye, but I'd hate to catch anyone off guard who might be sensitive to such issues

Wrapping himself up, hated cane in hand, John sets out from his empty one room flat, and into the chill of London in late January. It has been a few weeks since John returned to the city he once considered home, and other than his weekly trips to his therapist, John has spent his days thinking about how his life has changed, how everything he once loved and gave him drive, has been ripped from his fingers. But Doctor John Watson, Captain John Watson, is not one for wallowing in self pity, and though the emptiness is still there, John has decided not to let that stop him attempting to fill it.

 

On the advice of his therapist to socialize and maybe try to find a job, John is on his way to lunch with Mike Stamford, an old medical school friend. They had never been particularly close friends, but sharing most classes, getting together to review for exams, and grabbing a pint or two, earned the label of friends. So when John ran into him at the park earlier, and Mike mentioned he had some connections at various hospitals and clinics, and suggested they get lunch to talk about it, John had no choice but to accept.

 

Lunch goes surprisingly well. Mike tells him about teaching at Bart’s, and they joke how they were never as egotistical or as much of know-it-alls as the students these days are. He also tells John that he and his wife are expecting their first child in the spring. When asked if there is anyone special in his life, John just shrugs it off, saying that life in the army wasn't really conducive to maintaining a relationship. After that, they get down to business, Mike giving him the names of several places looking for doctors. John insists he’s not qualified for trauma medicine anymore, so they focus on clinics.

“I’d imagine treating colds and rashes would be pretty dull after everything you've done. And considering your skills…”

“Considering what my exciting life got me, I think dull is just what I need right now.”  John says with a sigh.

 

Lunch is coming to an end when he hears it, raised voices coming from a table off to his right.

“You couldn't have even taken the time to change?” And even though it has been over ten years, John would know the droll, condescending voice of Mycroft Holmes anywhere. Heart pounding, John’s ears perk up to listen.

“You think I like it? But why waste time changing when I want this done and over with as soon as possible. You’re the one who insists on doing this in person when it’s just as easily done over text.” Comes a low, but distinctly feminine voice.

Taking a risk, John carefully turns his head look the adjacent table, indeed seeing Mycroft Holmes sitting across from a dark haired woman, her back to John.  John takes some pleasure in seeing that Mycroft’s hairline has started to recede; and his age has started to show around his eyes. It is at that moment that Mycroft looks up, making eye contact with John.

“You’re right, we can do this at another time.” The bureaucrat says lowering his voice. To John’s horror, Mycroft then stands and makes his way over to John’s table. “Why Dr. Watson, what a pleasant surprise seeing you again. It’s been so very long since we last saw each other. How many years now?”

“Mycroft. Almost eleven years, I believe.” Getting to his feet, John greets the man he had hoped to never see again, no hint of happiness in his voice. “Mycroft, this is Mike Stamford, an old friend from university. Mike, this is Mycroft Holmes, I…ah… knew his brother.” The two shake hands, and John stands there hoping the floor would swallow him up so he can escape this awkward situation.

“Oh dear, where  _are_ my manners.” Mycroft smirks, turning to his dining companion who is now standing behind him. “Dr. Watson, let me introduce you to my sister, Whitney. Whitney, Dr. Watson was once a friend of Sherlock’s.”

It is then that John turns, and sees Whitney for the first time. She’s slim, impeccably dressed, and tall, maybe two or three inches taller than John.  Though it’s her eyes that he notices first, the same ice blue-green that he had once adored, made all the more striking by sharp cheek bones. To be frank, she’s one of the most beautiful women John’s ever seen.

Without missing a beat, he offers her his hand. “Ms. Holmes, it’s nice to meet you.”

Whitney stands there, for perhaps a second to long, staring at John, before shaking his hand. “Pleasure. I've…I've heard much about you,” her voice sounding soft, almost shy.

“Yes, yes.” Mycroft interrupts. “But we must be off. Whitney is only visiting for a few days, and we have much to do.”

“Actually, I’m moving back to England. That’s what I was going to tell you. I’m coming back to London.” Whitney blurts, the word rushing out of her.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You _so_ love the Continent.” Mycroft says, turning his back on John to speak with Whitney. John and Mike exchange a look, neither caring to get involved in the family matter. “We’ll talk about it later. Come now, _sister dear_. We  mustn't keep Mummy waiting.”

Mycroft takes his leave, but before following, Whitney turns back to John. “You should know your limp is psychosomatic, you don’t need the cane.” And with that, she is out the door.

“What the hell was that?” John chuckles as he sits back down.

“I've got no idea. But the way you were looking at her, do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you got mixed up with a Holmes?” Mike says, his tone light, but serious.

“You knew about that?”

“We all knew about it, mate. You weren't very subtle.” Mike laughs

“Ah, well, I was just being polite. It’s not her fault her brothers are total bastards. And anyway, it doesn't matter; I’ll never see them again.”

 

* * *

 

John has to hand it to Mike, the man really pulled through. After lunch, John sends his CV around to the places Mike suggested, and within a week he has a position at small clinic not too far from his flat, but far enough that he’s not confined to the same area. It is on his way to the clinic, two weeks after their initial meeting, when John meets Whitney Holmes again.

 

John stops into the dry cleaners up the block from the clinic to drop off his one good suit, only to find Whitney standing at the counter, arguing with the owner.

“Unless you have your ticket, I can’t give you the clothes. Simple as that.” The owner says.

“That is just absurd. I was not made aware of the need to retain the ticket when I dropped off the clothes, and as a result it must have been lost,” snaps Whitney.

“Listen sweetie, that’s how it’s always worked. It’s not my fault you didn't know that. No ticket, no clothes. For all I know, you just like the look of them, and thought you could take them.”

“Do you actually think I just walked in off the street on the off chance I could steal something? I've given you the correct name, a name that matches my ID, and I’m even wearing clothes that match what I am trying to pick up,” rapid-fire words firing from Whitney’s mouth. “You saw me, saw I don’t have my ticket, and figured me for an easy mark. What, thought maybe I’d bribe you to me my own belongings? Wanted a little extra since I paid when I dropped everything off? The question is, what kind of payment were you looking for, cash? Or perhaps you were hoping I would degrade myself? Is it because you’re lonely, what with your wife and your barely of age mistress refusing to touch you? Frankly I don’t blame them. Severe halitosis and excess sweating, a pleasant combination do not make.” She finishes with a sneer

At that, the owner grabs hold of Whitney’s wrist. “Listen here you little cu….”

“That’s about enough!” John cuts in, rushing forward and placing himself between the owner and Whitney, forcing the owner to drop Whitney's wrist.

“Did you hear the way that bitch talked to me?” the owner sputters.

“Yes, and it’s still not an excuse to physically and verbally assault her.” John now in full Captain Watson mode. “Now, you will get the lady her clothes so she can be on her way. And if anyone shows up with the ticket, claiming their clothes were stolen, you can direct them to John Watson. I work at the clinic just down the road.”

Without another word, the owner rushes to retrieve Whitney’s things. Once all her items were safely in her position, both she and John leave, John suddenly feeling the need to find a new dry cleaner.

 

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you shouldn't have stepped in to help so fast. I was just calculating how to get out of his hold that would have maximized the damage to him, and minimized that to myself. It would have most likely lead to several broken bones in his hand and wrist, minor bruising to myself.” Whitney says once they step out onto the pavement.

“Oh damn! And that would have been completely justified self defense. I can’t believe I did that prick a favor!” John laughs.

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. But really, thank you,” she mumbles quietly, clearly not used to having to thank others.

“No need. He was out of line, anyone would have done the same.”

“Not just that, for managing to get him to give me my clothes as well. In my defense about the ticket thing, I've always only ever had a service to pick up and drop off my things.” Whitney continues, obviously embarrassed.

“I’m always happy to help,” John says with a smile, earning a small twitch of a smile from Whitney.  “I really should be getting on my way to work, lateness is often frowned upon.”

“Ah, well, I’m heading that way.” Whitney signals, pointing the opposite direction. “Oh, and Dr. Watson?” she pauses with a smile. “You left you suit on the dry cleaner’s floor, along with your cane. I told you it was all in your head.”

“I already knew that. But knowing never stopped it from hurting!” a pleased laugh bubbling forth, as John stares down at his leg in shock, testing its strength.

“I guess you just needed to play hero again.” A sly smile spreading across Whitney’s face.

“Then I should be thanking you, Ms. Holmes.”

“Tell you what. If we ever meet again, and you still don’t need the cane, you can thank me then.” Whitney says, walking away.

 

After a brief pause, in which he notes just how Holmes like she is, John then heads back in to the shop to retrieve his suit and now unneeded cane.

“None of my business, but your girlfriend needs to learn to stop running her mouth like that. I don’t envy you, trying to control that.” The owner jeered

“I really wouldn't speak if I were you. You’re just lucky she didn't break your arm. And you better pray she doesn't press charges.” John warns, voice becoming dangerously calm.

He almost adds that Whitney isn't his girlfriend, but he decides he doesn't owe that creep any explanations. Just the thought alone triggers uncomfortably familiar memories of telling others a very similar sentence about a very similar Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Trying to push the incident at the dry cleaner’s to the back of his mind, John goes about his day as he normally would, though now without the aid of his cane. He sees patient after patient, treating sore throats, and placating hypochondriacs that their upset stomach is not Ebola. At one point he has to teach an asthmatic that she’s meant to use her inhaler to inhale the medication, instead of simply spraying it around her.

Even with such intense mental stimulation, the minutes and hours drag on, and John finds himself thinking about earlier in the day.  John doesn't like to think of himself as a confrontational or aggressive person, but there was just something about standing up to that man. And it isn't just the fact that it was the right thing to do, it’s that he got to ‘pull rank’ again, that even though the army may not have a use for him, he can still command respect. And though he’s loath to admit it, it’s the excitement of not really know what was going to happen next. The owner could have could very well tried something, thrown a punch, had a weapon, anything, and that uncertainty thrilled John. It’s that same thrill he felt in the army, that same thrill he felt when he was running with Sherlock.

It’s that thrill that cured his limp, he’s sure of it. John’s therapist is convinced that the limp is his way of holding on to the war; the pain he feels is his reminder of the battlefield. She says that once he makes peace with that part of his life being over, and accepts a quiet civilian life, the limp will go away. Though she came highly qualified, John never could bring himself to believe her. He doesn't need a limp to remind him of the war, the grisly scar and tremor are reminders enough, and at least those are real. No, John thinks Whitney’s right, it’s not forgetting the war, it’s recapturing just bit of the excitement the war provided. It was reminding himself that he’s not useless that cured his limp.

 

Eventually it’s time for John’s last patient of the day, a Mr. Fry complaining of joint pain.

“Just take a seat on the table,” John says when he hears the exam room door open, still reviewing Mr. Fry’s chart.

“I believe I’d prefer to stand,” replies the voice of, not an arthritic 87 year old man, but Mycroft Holmes.

“Oh Christ!” John’s head snapping up to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “What do you want from me now? I’m assuming it’s not an exam and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.”

“Witty as ever, Dr. Watson. I’m so glad the military didn't manage to drill that out of you.”

“It’s not that I’m not thrilled to see you again so soon, but I've had a rather long day. What are you doing here?” John asks curtly.

“I think you know.” Mycroft says, condescendingly.

“I really don’t. So just tell me, and then you can leave.” John stands, attempting to minimize the seven inch height difference.

“First my brother, now my  _sister_ ,” Mycroft’s tone turning threatening calm. “Tell me, Dr. Watson, what will it take to keep you away from my family?”

John can feel the anger start to rise into his throat. “What exactly are you accusing me of?” he bites. “I’m sure you of all people, are aware that my  _acquaintance_ with your brother is long over. And as for your sister, I ran into her by pure coincidence, and I was simply polite enough not to ignore her.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Mycroft says, leveling John with a skeptical, though somewhat relieved look, as he turns to take his leave

“And what is that supposed to mean?” John asks.

“Just that I’d advise you to tread carefully, Dr. Watson. The world is so full of  _coincidence._ ” And with that, John is left alone.

 

The restaurant was happenstance, the dry cleaner’s is coincidence, but if John were to meet Whitney again, now that would be a pattern. And the universe does so love a pattern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have Whitney, because that's just what John needs another Holmes
> 
> Sidenote: The asthmatic using her inhaler as a spray is from and episode of 'House'. Mycroft's fake name is a nod to Stephen Fry who plays Mycroft in the Richie Sherlock Holmes movies. You can see how really creative I am. :)
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes that slipped through the cracks!


	6. Not Easily Run Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Whitney get to know each other, and a friendship blossoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud I've manage to post this today, it's been a crazy couple of days. 
> 
> Please forgive any errors, I was super tired when I edited this. (Still am super tired)

A few short days after the dry cleaners and his confrontation with Mycroft, John finds himself in the non-fiction section of a nearby bookstore. Cursing his less than average height, John stands on his toes in an attempt to reach a book on the top shelf.

“Looks like it’s my turn to play hero” comes a familiar voice from behind him.

“Ms. Holmes!” John says, turning to greet Whitney as she reaches passed him to grab the book he was aiming for. “Now I feel embarrassed, though you’d think I’d be used to the downsides of being this short by now. Thank you.”

“Nonsense, you’re within one standard deviation of the mean height of British men. You've got nothing to be embarrassed by. And please, call me Whitney.” Whitney says matter-of-factly.

“Comforting, but I still couldn't reach a high shelf without your help.”

“Oh please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who’s intimidated by women who are taller than you?” Whitney asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not in the slightest. I've just got a terribly stubborn independent streak,” lifting his hands in surrender. “I've been told it does me more harm than good” John adds with a smile.

“Good. And really, it’s only the shoes that give me the advantage. Or adds to it, I should say.” Whitney says, flashing a small smile. “So, ‘How French Shaped Modern English’?” She asks, eyeing John’s book for the first time.

“Oh, yeah, that.” John responds, almost forgetting the whole reason he’s in the store in the first place. “I was reading an article in one of the magazine left at the surgery, about how French’s influence on English. It was interesting, so I thought I’d read up a bit on it.”

“Ah yes. English is a fascinating language. We so like to pride ourselves on being purely British, but in reality everything about modern Britain is a fusion of other cultures that we shaped, changed and incorporated into our own. Our language most of all.” A new spark seems to ignite in Whitney’s eyes.

“I take it this is something you know a bit about?”

“I study the Germanic and Nordic languages. Their impact on English is quite striking.”

 

Eventually John and Whitney migrate from standing, to a pair of seats at the end of the aisle. Whitney explaining the subtle nuances of language, how different regions have been influenced and evolved differently, and by using language, you can trace where people have lived. Though he does not want to be, John is struck by how much she is like Sherlock, getting lost in her passion for a subject, the rest of the world just falling away.

By the end of their conversation, which is more Whitney talking and John asking questions, prompting her to continue, over an hour has passed, and John ends up grabbing two books on German and Scandinavian influences on English.

“These books are rather good, they focus on the more historical aspects. I’d very much like to know what you think of them. Perhaps we could intentionally meet again. That is if I haven’t bored you already.” Whitney asks, making eye contact only briefly before looking over John’s shoulder.

“Not bored at all. I only work half day on Thursday, we could grab coffee,” John suggests.

“Thursday is agreeable. But do you think four days is sufficient time for you to read the books?”

John just lets out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m actually a pretty fast reader. You don’t’ have to worry about me.”

“Excellent! May I have your number, so we can arrange a time and place?” Whitney asks, already pulling out her mobile.

They exchange numbers, and then go their separate ways. John can’t help the smug smile on his face, imagining just how upset Mycroft will be,  now that John’s not only run into Whitney again, but is planning on meeting up on purpose. Even though John’s intentions are completely innocent, the thought of pissing off Mycroft Holmes is a rather pleasant one.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next four days, John reads the books he bought at every opportunity, between patients, during breaks, and when he gets back to his flat in the evenings.

On Wednesday evening, John receives a text of the address of a small café near the clinic, and asking if 1 o’clock works for him.

 

* * *

 

Thursday finally arrives and at 12:45 John starts packing up his things. If he’s packing faster than usually, he certainly isn’t aware. Within ten minutes John is seated in the café, not too close to the front, but in still clear view of the door. He orders a coffee while he waits, and tries to ignore the nervous feeling that has settled in his stomach. It’s a nice little place, about a dozen small tables scattered about, and some comfortable looking leather seats in the back corners. At 1 pm on the dot, Whitney walks through the door, looking around the room for a few seconds until John manages to catch her eye and wave her over.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long.” Whitney says as she removes her long wool coat, and takes the seat opposite John.

“No, I only got here about five minutes ago. This place is really close to work, took me about five minutes to get here.” John assures her.

“I know, that’s why I picked it.”

“You know where I work?” John asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not stalking you or anything. You were on your way to work that day we met at the dry cleaners, which is a block up from here. When you left you started heading this direction, and there is a surgery around the corner. You're a doctor, you had your cane at the time, so it was a safe bet you were heading to a nearby medical facility.”  Whitney rattles off.

“You deduced it. You figured out where I work based purely on the fact I was in that dry cleaner at that time of day. Fantastic!” John can’t help being amazed.

Blushing, “It’s how I knew your limp was psychosomatic.” Whitney smiles. “When Mycroft approached you at the restaurant, you stood quickly and adapted a firm stance. Both of which you couldn’t do if your leg pain was the result of a physical injury.”

“Just like him.” John murmur accidentally, without thinking.

“Who?”

“Oh,” John stalls. “Umm…like your brother. I mean your ability is like his.” He awkwardly finishes

“Mycroft? His ability is for manipulation and persuasion” Whitney says, slightly confused. “I hope I don’t remind you of him. In any way.” She adds with a scoff.

“I, ah, I meant the….other one.” John says, looking down. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, it’s fine….and I guess you’re right, we are very similar” Whitney says awkwardly, refusing to meet John’s eyes.

The silence between them stretches, neither knowing how to break the awkward moment.

“Alright, let’s just forget I said anything.” John finally breaks.

“Yes, it’s deleted.” Whitney agrees, once again reminding John of Sherlock, though he keeps it to himself this time. “Tell me, did you get to read those books you bought? What did you think?”

“Yeah, I actually did.” John says, glad for the topic change. “I was particularly surprised by just how much the Viking invasions had. I don’t know why I’m surprised, they invaded after all, of course they would bring their own culture with them. I just always assumed everything was a smooth transition from Old English to what we have now.”

“That’s a very British way of thinking, don’t worry about it. Hardly anyone takes the time to think about and realize how much of what we think of as classically British, comes from elsewhere.” That spark of excitement returning to Whitney’s eyes. “Ask the man on the street, and they’d think Germanic influence ends at ‘bratwurst’ and ‘kindergarten.’”

“The royal family is German after all.”  

“They are?” Whitney says with a little frown. John laughs, and just like that, all awkwardness is forgotten, and the two fall into comfortable conversation.

 

“After I finished university, I decided to stay in Germany to continue my research at Universität Leipzig. Up until I moved back, I had a duel appointment in the linguistics and English departments.”

“I know I sound like a broken record, but that’s so impressive, the way you can just dissect languages like that. My French was barely passable when I was learning it in school.”

“We all have different talents.” Whitney says, brushing off John’s comments. “I’d be hopeless in a medical emergency, especially in a stressful environment such as a battlefield surgery.”

“I suppose. But given my ability, it was kind of a given.” John agrees. “And in the end, look what it got me.” He motions towards his injured shoulder.

“Do you miss it? The army I mean. If you don’t mind me asking.” Whitney asks, eyes locking on John’s shoulder.

“Sometimes, yeah. I served with good men and women, and I think I made a difference.”

“So, do you think that made it all worth it? Even knowing you were going to be injured, do you think you would do it again?” Whitney’s voice becoming quiet, almost as if she’s not sure she has the right to asked John this yet.

John stays quiet for a few moments before letting out a deep sigh and answering. “Ultimately, I think it was worth it. I was able to save a lot of people and get them sent home to their loved ones. That’s always worth it. But I’m not entirely sure I’d do it all again.”

“Why?”Whitney asks carefully.

“Well it would have been foolish to think I wouldn't have regrets. For one, I’ve effectively lost half of my ability.” John sighs. “The nerve damage in my left arm makes hands on treatment difficult. So now I can figure out what to do, but am all but powerless to do it.”

“Delicate surgeries maybe, but surely you could do everything else and just leave the portions requiring fine motor skills to others.”

“Yeah, but so much of trauma medicine is on the spot care. Time is of the essence, and you have to do it as you think of it.”

After a brief pause, in which Whitney appears to be working up her nerve, she finally speaks. “What’s the other reason you have regrets? You said the injury was one. So what is the other?”

“Oh, right. I guess it was just the strain it put on my relationships. I let friendships slip through the cracks, losing touch with people I was once so close to. I was away when my mother got sick, and I wasn’t able to really say goodbye properly.” John says, cursing the tremor in his voice. “I know she was proud of me, and didn’t want me to worry about her. I was able to attend her funeral, but I would have liked to come see her once last time. I think Harry, my sister, may resent me a bit for that. Even though I’m a doctor, all the care fell on her.”

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“No it’s fine. It’s been years, and I think we’ve come to terms with everything.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have asked.” Whitney stands, looking visibly affected. “I hate to rush off, but I have a meeting about a possible job. It’s in an hour, and I should probably be going.”

“Oh, alright.” John standing too. “I hope it wasn’t me getting maudlin there at the end, I hope it didn’t drive you away.” He jokes.

“No, not at all. I’m not run off that easily.” Whitney smiles. “I really did let time slip away from me. But I enjoyed this. I’ll text you, and we can do this again.” And with one last smile, she’s out the door and appears to flip off a nearby CCTV camera.

Even as he berates himself for getting too personal, talking about ruining relationships, John can’t help but laugh. If he never sees Whitney again, at least that last image of her telling the camera, and Mycroft, where to stick it, is a funny one. John desperately hopes it is not the last meeting he has with Whitney Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Whitney texts John that weekend, and the following Thursday, John finds himself walking into the café again. After a moment John spots her sitting in one of the arm chairs, bouncing her leg, playing with her hands, and looking generally uncomfortable for some reason.

“Sorry I’m late, I got tied up the clinic.” John says as he approaches Whitney.

Whitney appears immediately at ease. “No need to apologize, I haven’t been waiting long.”

“Still, I hate being late.” John says, sitting down in an adjacent chair. “So, how did that job interview go?” He asks.

“Quite well, excellent in fact. It’s with Cambridge, analyzing and translating old texts.”

“That’s great! Sounds right up your alley.” John says, then immediately cringes, ‘who says right up your alley?’ he thinks.

“The best part is that it’s a freelance position, I’m only attached to the university. I can work on my own schedule without the interference of others. I’ll have time to indulge in other interests.” Whitney says, as if making her work on a schedule is the same as making her tear out her hair, strand by strand.

“That certainly sounds better than my day to day.” John mumbles without thinking.

“Stressful day?” Whitney asks

“How could you tell?”

“Your shirt shows prominent creases, suggesting it’s usually kept folded. Your shoes are wet even though it’s not raining, and there is a rather strong smell of sanitizer. Not to mention you were over 11 minutes late.” Whitney lists off. “If I had to guess, and I don’t guess, I’d say a patient got sick on you, resulting in you having to wear your spare shirt, attempt to wash your shoes, and use extra sanitizer.”

“I know I shouldn't be surprised, but that is amazing. Each time, amazing!”

“It’s really nothing.” Though she tries to hide it, Whitney still blushes. “If the clinic work is so dull, I don’t understand why you don’t work in the hospital, surely that would be more stimulating. Bart’s has a diagnostic medicine department. That seems, as you say, ‘right up your alley’.”

“Never really saw myself as a Dr. House type. Plus I lost the cane!” John jokes, trying to brush off the suggestion, because really, he is not ready to face Bart’s again.

“Who? I don’t think there’s a House on staff there.” Whitney asks, the confusing clearly written on her face.

“‘House’, it was a telly program a few years ago. Figured out medical mysteries.” John explains, and is still met with a blank look. “Forget it. Do I want to know why you know the staff of Bart’s?”

“Oh….I just know some….people who work there.” Whitney says carefully. “Mix boredom, staff directory, and photographic memory and I now I have the medical staff memorized.”

“Again, I should have known.”

“Actually, it’s wasting space. I should probably delete it.”

Once again, John can’t help but be reminded of another Holmes and their penitent for deleting ‘useless information.’ Forcing those thoughts and memories back, he promises to keep the career change in mind, though he’ll probably stick with the clinic work for a while because, ‘boring is a bit refreshing after the past few years I’ve had’. But really, clinic work is safe, fewer reminders of the past, and less chance of running into that past.

 

The rest of coffee passes comfortably enough. John spends the time telling Whitney some of the more interesting ways his patients have tried to lie to him. Did that kid honestly think he’d believe they got an STD from a toilet seat? He tells her he’s taken up running, all thanks to her getting rid of his limp. Whitney tells John all about the texts she’s going to be examining, written accounts from a long destroyed abbey.

“Okay, I have to ask,” John blurts when there’s a lull in the conversation, “your name.”

“What about it?” Whitney asks, furrowing her brow.

“Well, it’s….normal.”

“….Yes?” Confusion coloring Whitney’s expression.

“Considering the….unique names of the rest of your family…”

“Ah, yes. That’s because I've never felt the need call attention to myself. I go by my first name, and not my  _unique_ middle, unlike my pretentious brothers.”

“Now that I think about it, I remember he slipped and mentioned ‘William’ once.” John laughs, almost to himself. “So what’s your unique middle name?”

“My full name is Whitney Stockhart Sara Holmes.” Whitney says, almost cautiously.

“I like it, it suits you.” John smiles. “Wait, does this mean Mycroft as a regular first name?”

Whitney’s eyes light up, a conspiratorial smile spreads across her face. “Michael.”

“Michael Mycroft? Oh that is perfect!” The two devolving into laughter. By the time it’s time to go, they agree to meet again soon.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Thursday afternoon coffee becomes a weekly routine for John and Whitney, where they talk about almost everything. Though Whitney tends to shy away from her childhood, John is somewhat grateful, preferring to minimize the number of awkward Sherlock mentions. There were enough reminders as it is.

In mid April, John walks into the café to find Whitney at their usual chairs, papers spread out in front of her.

“Ah, John, excellent timing! Is it at all possible to sustain a hyoid bone fracture in a fall?” She says in place of a greeting, putting the papers away.

“Given the position in the throat, it’s extremely difficult to break the hyoid. There are some other rare ways, but if it’s fractured, that generally means the person was strangled, or at least severely chocked.” John answers as he sits. “Do I want to know?”

“I knew it!” Whitney exclaims before looking back at John. “I started looking at some of the death records stored at the abbey, decided to see if I could match them with some of the remains in the crypt. I’m fairly sure a man who is listed as dying from injuries sustained in a fall, was actually murdered.”

“Identifying  murder while translating old church records? Nothing against linguistics, but maybe you should go in to the crime solving business.” John chuckles.

“Well crime is just another kind of puzzle to be solved.” Whitney states matter-of-factly. “But I think the Yard has all the Holmes’ they can deal with.”

“And we don’t want the Yard getting in over their heads.”

 

* * *

 

One week, about three months after they start meeting, Whitney rushes into the café, practically bouncing. She been granted permission to examine one of the first written recordings of the Althing. Hesitantly, she explains that because she’ll be in Iceland, she’ll have to miss their coffee meet-ups for the next few weeks. If, after John congratulates her and assures her that both he and the café well be there when she returns, they hug for slightly longer than necessary, neither thinks to mention it.

 

What neither John, nor even the ever observant Whitney, could possibly know, is that this is the moment where everything will begin to change.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's gotten used to his routine with Whitney, whatever will he do now that she's out of town?
> 
> (Side note: Since learning Sherlock has a "normal" first name, I always wondered if Mycroft does too. So of course I thought it would be hilarious if he real first name was Michael, which makes Mrs. Holmes calling him 'Myc' even better.)
> 
> Hope you all are still liking this thing!


	7. An Unexpected Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs into some familiar faces, some more welcoming than others. He also comes to some decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the half way point!

It only takes one week, Thursday to Thursday, before John’s life gets boring again. Nothing has really changed over the course of the week. He still has his shifts at the clinic, seeing the same kind of patients. He still goes jogging in the park. The only thing that’s different is Whitney. He’s grown so accustomed to their weekly coffee, that now without them, he feels like he has no one to talk to. All his co-workers ever seem to want to talk about is their children, and anything even remotely interesting that happens at work, they already are privy to it. Even discussions of pop culture and current events aren't as interesting. Not when he doesn't have to marvel at his hyper-intelligent friend who can tell the woman in the newspaper is going to leave her partner in a week’s time, but not that she’s a prominent cabinet minister.

But like with every cloud, there is a silver lining. In his boredom, John gives some serious thought to Whitney’s idea about the Bart’s diagnostic medicine department. It would certainly put his skills to good use, and it wouldn't be the same day-to-day runny noses and skin rashes. So, deciding to stop avoiding a past he may not even encounter, John gives Mike Stamford a call to find out what he knows about the diagnostic department, and if it would be worth looking into.

 

That following Monday afternoon John has a meeting with the department head, who tells John she’d be thrilled to have someone with his level of gift on their team. All John has to do is say the word and they’ll work something out. Telling her he needs to give it some thought, and promising to contact her soon, the meeting ends, and John goes to meet Mike who has promised to give him a bit of a nostalgia tour of Bart’s.

 

* * *

 

John is surprised at how little, yet how much, the hospital has changed in his time away. The most glaring difference is how streamline and state-of-the-art everything has become, he notes to Mike.

“John? Is that you?” Says a familiar, bubbly voice, as they enter a pathology lab.

“Molly Hooper, as I live and breathe. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” John greets the woman he once considered to be one of his closest friends.

“Oh John, not at all. It’s wonderful to see you! It’s been too long. What, almost 8 years now?” Molly says, throwing her arms around John, hugging him as if no time had passed.

“Just about,” he nods sheepishly when the hug ends. “Sorry I didn’t stay in better contact. I kind of lost touch with everyone once I was sent overseas.”

“Nonsense, you had more important things to deal with. No harm, no foul.” She says, brushing off John’s apology. “I was so worried when Mike mentioned running into you and that you had been invalided home. But then he said that you seemed to be healing, so that was a relief.”

“Yeah, took a hit to the shoulder.” John says, lifting his left shoulder. “Ended my military career, but at least now I’m home.”

Stepping back, Molly seems to zero in on John’s shoulder. “Relatively minor nerve damage given the injury, but it looks like it’s not permanent. New connections even seem to be forming.”

“I see the interactions going on in a living body aren't as distracting as before.” John says with a smile.

“Oh yes.” She returns the smile. “It still takes more focus than looking at….bodies that have, let’s say, stilled, but it does come in handy every now and again.”

“I’m sure.”

At this point, Mike has a class to get to, and leaves the two old friends to catch up. Molly tells John about being on track to becoming the head of pathology once the current head retires, and about her and Greg being married for five years now, insisting he join them for dinner someday.

John glosses over his time in the Middle East, and briefly talks about work at the clinic. He’s about to mention the possibility of a position at Bart’s, when the door to the lab opens with a bang. 

“Molly! I know your life is  _sooo_ busy,” comes a deep voice John hasn’t heard in a decade, but still sends electricity through his body and halts his breathing, “but I need those cancerous stomach you promised me. They’re vital to the case!”

“Sherlock!” Molly squeaks. “You remember John Watson from university. Well, obviously you do. He was, he was just visiting.” She babbles, clearly uncomfortable.

John slowly turns, fighting the urge to run, to look at Sherlock Holmes for the first time in ten years. Still tall and thin, with a mop of black curls, Sherlock seems to have grown even more into his looks. Even as he stands there, frozen in place, green-blue eyes locked on John, a quick flash of panic across his face, Sherlock is just as striking as ever.

“Ah, actually managed to make it back in one piece.” Sherlock quips, trying to sound dismissive, but just missing.

“Yeah, but only just” John says with a slight nervous laugh

A small smile forms on Sherlock’s face, before he quickly drops it with a shake of his head. “Such a shame Her Majesty had to lose such skilled hand.” Looking John right in the eyes, his voice flat and betraying nothing.

“Molly, when you’re finished  _socializing_ , do get me those stomachs.” And with a swish of his coat, Sherlock storms out the door, and John finds his breath again.

“Oh John, I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t even think about the fact that Sherlock might just show up. I knew he wanted the stomachs, but it all just slipped my mind.” Molly apologizes profusely.

“It’s not your fault.” John tries to reassure her. “Besides it was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s almost comforting to know he still hasn’t changed. Just as harsh as ever.”

“It was just the shock I think. And he’s been trying to quit smoking, so that hasn't helped his manners”

“No need to make excuses, we’re all adults. I know what he’s like, or at least I did.” John says, allowing his sadness to enter his voice. “Listen, I really ought to be getting out of your hair. It was wonderful seeing you again. Mike can give you my number, and we’ll figure out about dinner.” He then makes a quick exit before Molly can respond

 

* * *

 

Mind reeling and short of breath, John somehow makes it back to his flat. Forgoing dinner, John gets properly drunk for the first time since returning home, before stumbling into his bed still dressed.

 

That night, John dreams of what would have happened if he had gone after Sherlock after their fight. He tells him he means more to John than any other person on the planet. That thinking about being separated from him, not seeing him every day, has made John change his mind a dozen times. He tells him that he has faith that they can weather any storm because they love each other, what they have is real, and he will never stop fighting for them. John dreams of pulling Sherlock back into the flat, and making love to him for hours, of trailing his mouth down Sherlock’s lean body, of whispering how much he loves him. He dreams of taking Sherlock, and giving himself to Sherlock, in every way imaginable. Then at the last moment, Sherlock pulls away, telling him he never loved him, and disappears.

John wakes up, heart pounding, to find his face wet from sweat or tears, he doesn't know. Undressing, he then forces himself back to sleep. This time he dreams of standing behind yellow police tape, and Whitney is standing over a body, firing off deductions. The scene shifts, and suddenly he’s sitting with Whitney in the comfy chairs at the café. She’s explaining that the suicide note used phrasing common to Devon, when the victim has never left Northumberland. Next, he’s lying tangled with Whitney on his couch, cold Thai food sitting forgotten on the coffee table.

When John wakes again, he’s hard. Taking himself in hand, and with quick, messy strokes, John pictures only a hazy figure with a pair of ice blue-green, upturned almond eyes.

John does not dream again for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

After that night, John goes about his days as he always would, while he attempts to put the unexpected meeting, unexpected dreams, behind him. Of course with everything Holmes related, that is easier said than done.

But if the run in at Bart’s taught him anything, it’s that even after ten years, he is still not over Sherlock, and he cannot face seeing him on a somewhat regular basis.

 

The Friday after the incident, Molly calls to invite John to dinner with her and Greg, the following evening. Hesitantly, John accepts, not that he lets on about his hesitation. He just has to mentally prepare himself for an awkward evening.

The dinner arrives, and though it is somewhat strained, the conversation is comfortable. They reminisce about their days at university, certain classmates going unmentioned. They talk about their lives, John telling them a little about this time overseas, and about his clinic work, though he fails to mention he was considering coming to Bart’s. Yes, the conversation is comfortable, that is until they start talking about Greg’s work.

“Quickest rise through the ranks of Scotland Yard in the past forty years. Highest solve rate too!” Molly beams.

“It’s not as impressive as she makes it sound.” Greg says, rolling his eyes at his wife.

“I don’t know, mate, sounds pretty impressive to me.” John says. “Then again, you can tell if a suspect is lying to you. So maybe I shouldn't be that impressed”

“Exactly! Plus I need to have a suspect before I can question them. And I wouldn't have caught nearly half of them without…” Greg catches himself. “um…without help.”

“You can say his name,” John says after a tense moment. “I know you work with him. I’m not so weak I can’t hear his name.”

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t think that.” Greg apologizes.

“Yeah, John, we just didn't want it to be awkward. Especially after earlier this week” Molly adds.

“It’s not, really. It’s been ten years. He’s moved on, I’ve moved on. It’s fine.” John says, waving off their apologies.

“Oh…um…so are you…uh….are you seeing anyone?” Molly asks after sharing a look with Greg.

“Not at the moment really, no.” And though it is clear from his expression, that Greg knows John’s not being completely honest, he thankfully doesn't press the matter.

               

That evening when he returns to his flat, John comes to a decision. Though he clearly still harbors feelings for Sherlock, it’s time to stop distracting himself and force himself to get over Sherlock and actually move on. Now he just needs to work up the nerve to try.

 

* * *

 

Roughly a month after leaving, Whitney returns and they meet once again at when has now become their café. Walking into the café, John is met with what he can only describe as a relieved looking Whitney, who greets him with a hug, mumbling something under her breath that he doesn't quite catch.

As always, the conversation flows comfortably and easily, as if no time had passed. Whitney tells John all about her time in Iceland.  She thinks that she may be able to link the texts she examined to Norwegian records from a slightly earlier time period, thereby filling in some gaps in the evolution of the languages. There is a slight hiccup when John mentions looking into the diagnostic department at Bart’s.

“And do you think you’re going to do it?” Whitney asks, the grip tightening on her mug going unnoticed by John.

“I think I’m going to hold off for now. I feel like I should put in at least a year at the clinic before thinking about jumping ship.” John explains with an unconvincing laugh. “But it was nice to see Molly again.”

“Oh, well that’s the hospital’s loss. But I’m glad you at least got to re-connect with your old friend.”

“It was. She and I used to be pretty good friends back in university; her husband, Greg, too. I just kind of lost touch after everything. Of course she insisted we all go to dinner to catch up.”

“How, uh, how did that go?” Whitney asks, somewhat quietly, looking down at her hands.

“It was great seeing them again, definitely, but I feel like we all changed so much. We aren't the same as we were at Uni, our lives have all fundamentally shifted” John says, sounding a bit resigned.

“I’m sorry. But just because it isn't like it used to be, doesn't mean you can’t re-establish a different friendship with time. I know how difficult it would be to lose someone you were once close to.”

“Yeah, hopefully.” It’s obvious Whitney has had some experience with falling out with others, but not wanting to press the matter, John shifts the conversation back towards safer waters.  And after a while, their familiar dynamic is re-established.

 

By the time they've made up for one month of missed conversations, dusk has begun to fall and John offers to wait with Whitney while she gets a cab.

“Actually I was planning on walking. I only live about five blocks away, on Baker Street.”

“Oh, right. Um…I could walk with you if you like. It is getting dark after all” John offers, trying his hardest not to come off like a creep.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Whitney agrees. So they set out, and before long they’re standing in front of the black door of 221 Baker Street.

“Thank you for seeing me back, I felt much safer with you escorting me.” Whitney says with a smile.

“Anytime, and it gave us more time to talk. I know it was just a month, but I genuinely missed our get-togethers.”

“Me too. I find it quite easily to talk to you, John.”

After a brief moment, John works up his courage and takes a deep breath. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Eyes growing wide, Whitney freezes, lips slightly open as if trying to say something but no sound coming out.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” John apologizes profusely. “I shouldn't have said anything. I miss interpreted things. I’m so sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’ll…I’ll just leave.” And he turns to walk away.

“No, wait. It’s not that.” Whitney says, grabbing John’s wrist to stop him. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this. I've actually been wanting to. It’s just I know you ran into…Him, at Bart’s, and I don’t want _this_ ” she says motioning between them,  “to have anything to do with _that_.”

“Of course you've heard about that.” John mumbles under his breath, before speaking up. “I did see him briefly, but this, you and me, it’s got nothing to do with that. Believe me, Sherlock is part of the past.”

“I get it, it’s too strange. I used to be involved with your brother, I understand.” John sighs.

“No, that doesn't bother me.” Whitney says, dismissing the notion with a wave. “It’s just…it’s obvious that he and I share certain….similarities. I don’t want to take advantage.”

“You’re not, you’re not.” John assures her. “Sure you share some traits, all siblings do, but you’re different as well. And I like those differences too. For instance I don’t know if he’d even worry about possibly taking advantage.”

Smiling sadly, Whitney gives a small nod.

“Sorry, that sounded rude. He’s your brother, your twin. I don’t mean to imply anything bad about him.” John grimaces, wanting to stick his foot right into his mouth.

“No, no. I understand just how difficult he can be, believe me.” Whitney says with a small laugh.

“I’m sure you are.” John smiles tentatively. “Can I take you out on an actual date, prove to you it’s about you and no one else?”

“Yes, I’d very much like that. I’m free this weekend.”

“Great! Saturday too soon?” John asks, fighting the eager grin on his face.

“Saturday works.” Whitney agrees. “You can…uh…you can kiss me if you still want to.” She adds, leaning forward ever so slightly.

Closing the distance, John presses his lips to Whitney’s in a chaste, but relaxed kiss, his hand lightly cupping her cheek. It’s not the type of kiss about which poets write sonnets, or singers write ballads, but the light brush is enough to elicit a small, barely audible gasp, his own or from Whitney, John doesn't know. He then forces himself to slowly pull away.

“I’ll see you Saturday, then.” John says, lowering his hand from Whitney’s cheek.

“Mmm, yeah.” Whitney hums, opening her eyes. “I look forward to it.” She says, before opening the door and entering 221 Baker Street.

After a few seconds standing in front of the three story terraced house, John turns and heads for his own flat. His heart pounding, both from excitement, and the flash of memories of kissing another pair of soft cupid’s bow lips, memories he quickly shut off before they can take root too much in his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running into everyone's favorite Consulting Detective was bound to happen sooner or later, let's just hope it doesn't complicate things for poor John TOO much.
> 
> Next up, John's first 'first date' in years!
> 
> Again, apologies for any typos or stilted sounding conversations.


	8. Giving it a Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets someone else from the Holmes siblings' past, and he and Whitney go on their date.

By the time Saturday arrives, John is in a full panic. Is he moving things too fast? Sure they've known each other for months, and some of their coffee get-togethers did sometimes feel more like dates, but what if he’s reading the signs wrong? What if Whitney is just humoring him? What if he’s taking advantage of Whitney, using her as a substitute for Sherlock? But he meant what he said, they share some similarities, but there were differences too, differences he very much liked. So why shouldn't he like the traits in Whitney that he had once loved in Sherlock, in addition to her differences? It’s times like these that John desperately misses his mother. He could just lay everything on the table, all his worries and confusion, and she would know exactly what to do.

And so that’s how John spends his Saturday, questioning and rethinking everything, and before he knows it, it’s time to get ready. Freshly showered, and in his nicest pair of dark jeans and the dark blue dress shirt Harry claims ‘brings out his eyes’, John sets out of the flat. In the cab he takes a few deep breathes, telling himself that there’s no harm in giving this a shot, it’s just a date, it doesn't have to mean anything more. He just needs to take things slow and keep things casual, and he should be alright

 

* * *

 

Standing in front of 221 Baker Street, John is just about to knock, when the door flies open, revealing a short, kindly looking woman in her late 60s or early 70s.

“You must be John!” The woman exclaims, a smile completely filling her face. “I've heard all about you. I’m just so happy to finally meet the man who has made my dearest so very happy. I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way.” Her eyes practically sparkling with excitement, as she beckons him in.

“It’s pleasure to meet you, ma’am” John says, shaking Mrs. Hudson’s hand. That’s when it strikes him, “Wait, you’re Mrs. Hudson? As in the nanny, Mrs. Hudson?”

“The one and only.” Mrs. Hudson beams. “But I’m the landlady now. Though the way that one acts, sometimes I still feel like the nanny.”

And just like that, the panic returns. The way Sherlock had spoken of his lifelong nanny, it was obvious the two were close, and John can only imagine the horrible things he might have told her after everything between them fell apart. John can only imagine she feels about this same awful man dating another one of her former charges?

But,  reading John’s panic, Mrs. Hudson puts his mind to rest. “Not to worry, dear, I've not heard a single negative word spoken about you. Nothing but glowing reviews.”

“Oh, that's quite a relief. I just hope I live up to them.” John halfheartedly laughs.

“I’m sure you will. Well, her flat is C, if you want to head down to let her know you’re here. God only knows what goes on in that funny head, she may have lost track of time.” Mrs. Hudson says, directing John down the steps leading to 221C.

 

When John reaches the door of 221C, John can’t help but hear Whitney in the midst of a rather heated phone conversation

“Don’t you dare try and use your little trick on me; you know it’s never worked. I have made mistakes, I know when I’m making one, and this isn't”

\---

“I know that.  I’m not going to, as you say, jump around. I’m giving THIS a chance.”

\---

“It happens, people move, they leave, I frankly don’t care.”

\---

“No I won’t. This is important, trying will always be worth it.”

\---

“I’ll cross that bridge if I come too it. Wait…shut up…I hear something.”

And before John can do anything. Whitney opens door, a look of shocked surprise on her face, that he can only imagine matches his own. “I swear I wasn't eavesdropping!” He blurts.

“No, no, no. It’s alright.” Whitney says, recovering quickly. “Just the overbearing lump of excess adipose tissue claiming to be my brother, presuming he knows better than me.”

“Ah, and how is Mycroft doing?” John says, trying to lessen the uncomfortable tension.

“Horrible, as always. Come in, I just need to finish getting ready. I was rudely interrupted before.” And with a swish of blue dressing gown, Whitney is gone and into another room.

John smiles to himself and enters the, for lack of a better word, ‘uniquely’ decorated flat. An old floral pattern couch sits facing the fireplace, over which, a tattered St. George’s cross hangs framed, an unplugged TV sits atop an antique, poorly repainted chest of drawers. Against the wall, leading to the almost completely bare kitchen, a wicker bucket chair sits, a violin case sitting on top. And there are books piled everywhere.

John is looking at the violin, when a voice sounds behind him.

“Ah, yes. I didn't have any furniture so Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to lend me some of hers”

“It is an interesting mix. But I noticed the violin, do you play too?” John asks, turning to look at Whitney, but not catching her answer.

Whitney is wearing a form-fitting, knee length aubergine dress, its v-neck neckline showing her defined collar bones.  Her long wavy hair pinned up, a few loose strands framing her face. To put it simply, she is stunning, and John is at a loss for words.

“People are going to think you lost a bet or something. You look gorgeous, what are you doing agreeing to be seen with the likes of me?” John says when his senses finally return.

“I’m fairly sure I’m the one who got the better end of this deal.” A faint pink coloring Whit’s cheeks.

“Maybe we should get your eyes checked before dinner, I’m starting to think you don’t know what I look like. Or how you look.” John chuckles.

“John, my eyesight is perfect” Whitney says, sounding a bit confused.

“Of course it is.” John smiles, shaking his head. “Are we ready to go? I made reservations”

 

As they leave, Mrs. Hudson comes out of her flat, and pulls Whitney aside, saying something John doesn't quite hear. But he suspects that is rather the point.

“Yes….I am….I will” Whitney says, leaning down to kiss Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, before turning back to join John.

 

* * *

 

With the accidental eavesdropping incident forgotten, the cab ride to the restaurant passes comfortably, despite John’s heart rate doing double time.

 

The restaurant is a small, upscale bistro that can only be described as cozy. With its dim lighting, small tables, and quiet hum of conversation, it is a perfect balance of intimate and relaxed. After a few moments perusing the menu, they place their order; John getting the lemon caper chicken, and Whitney the strawberry glazed salmon. She also takes the initiative to order them each a glass of chardonnay, for which John, knowing next to nothing about proper wine pairings, is eternally grateful.

“It’s simply really. Dark meat with red wine, white meat and fish with white.” Whitney explains.

“I may not be fancy, but I did know at least that much. But they've got a lot of different choices, I didn't want to make a fool of myself and pick the wrong type, maybe even ruining your meal.”

“I doubt even a poor wine selection could ruin salmon for me.”

“That fond of it, huh?” John chuckles.

Smiling, “Actually, Mycroft is allergic to salmon, so I make a point to order it as often as I can.” Whitney explains.

“Making up for all the times you couldn't have it growing up?”

“No, to rub it in his face” She smirks.

“Wow, you….” But John stops himself, about to mention how much like Sherlock she is.

“Hmm?” Whitney raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“It’s just…you guys almost make Harry and my relationship look affectionate.” It’s an awkward save, but a save none the less.

Fortunately, Whitney doesn't seem to notice, or at least let on that she’s noticed. “Not good?” She asks.

“No, actually, I've met Mycroft. He deserves it.” They both laugh, and end up devising more and more ridiculous ways of taunting Mycroft with salmon. As if the very idea of taunting someone with salmon wasn't ridiculous to begin with.

               

Soon their food arrives, and John asks how Whitney came about living with Mrs. Hudson, finding it amusing she still lives with her nanny.

Whitney just rolls her eyes. “It’s not like she’s my carer. And it’s not like I’m actually living  _with_ her. I needed a flat, she had one sitting empty. Plus she likes me and I get it for a reduced price. I’d say it’s a win-win.”

“So it was a good thing she was your nanny, then. It got you the rent cut.”

“That, and we helped her out when her husband was executed.” Whitney states offhandedly, as if it were the most normal sentence.

“What? I think I remember something about him not being that great of a person, but he was executed?” Whitney goes on to explain how the  _family_ helped prove he was running a drug cartel in Florida behind Mrs. Hudson’s back, and had killed three people. The Holmes’ also made sure the authorities knew that Mrs. Hudson knew nothing about what was going on, and helped her get settled back in England.

 

For the rest of dinner the conversation, while odd, flows easily, and comfortably.  John even tells story of how he had been called to an opium den to tend to a couple of Canadian troops who had overdosed, without a single permanent side effect.

 

It’s the last day of spring, and the evening is clear and warm, so once dinner is finished, they opt to walk back to Baker Street, instead of taking a cab. As they cross the street after leaving the restaurant, Whitney’s hand slips into John’s, and remains there for the rest of their walk. John can’t help but smile at the feel of Whitney’s slim, elegant hand in his, fitting almost perfectly, feeling almost as if it was made to be there.

 

* * *

 

All too soon they find themselves approaching 221 Baker Street, neither wanting the evening to end, but neither quite knowing what to say keep it going.

Stopping in front of the door, Whitney turns to face John. “I very much enjoyed myself tonight, John.”

“Yeah, so did I. I always enjoy spending time with you.” John says, stepping a little closer to Whitney, and leaning forward to press a tentative kiss to her lips.

After a brief pause, Whitney tilts her head slightly and relaxes into the kiss, clutching the sides of John’s shirt. Taking this as a good sign, John’s hand moves up to cup her cheek, thumb running along the prominent cheekbone. With a desperate sound, something between a whimper and a moan, Whitney captures his lower lip between her own, biting down ever so slightly. Letting go of his shirt, she wraps her arms around John’s neck, his moving to her waist, pulling her close. The kiss deepens, and even as the need for oxygen burns their lungs, neither wants to part.

Finally Whitney pulls away, cheeks flushed, and lips kiss swollen. “So, are we still on for Thursday afternoon?” She asks quietly, arms still resting on John shoulders.

“Well I know I’ll be there, so I think that’s up to you.” John smiles, playfully bumping her nose with his.

“Then I’ll see you on Thursday.” And with one last smile and kiss, Whitney disappears into 221.

Taking a few moments to recover, John hails a cab. Unable to get rid of the huge grin plastered across his face even if he wanted to, John replays the date, and the best kiss he’s had in over ten years. The best kiss since…Well, he’s not going to think about _that_ now.

 

That night, John dreams of sparkling blue-green eyes, loose black curls, soft lips, and sharp cheekbones. It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in months.

 

* * *

 

The following Thursday, John and Whitney meet for their now routine coffee date, and nothing between them has really changed. The conversation still flows just as easily, except now John greets her with a kiss, and their legs and arms may brush more often. Everything feels easy, it all feels almost right, as if everything is as it should be. Once their orders arrive, Whitney even suggests they sit outside in the small park across the street, to enjoy the early summer afternoon. They find a bench under the shade of an elm, and watch fellow park goers, every so often John points someone out and Whitney dissects their life story. It’s all so comfortable, as if they've done this a thousand times.

Once they've run out of people to deduce, John begins telling Whitney about a patient complaining of tremors, migraines, bouts of vertigo, nausea, sweating and nystagmus, who came into the clinic for a second opinion before having throat surgery.

“Her other doctor diagnosed her with hyperthyroidism, but none of the treatments are working, so he said the only option now is to perform surgery.” John explains.

“Is that a viable option?”

“It is, but she has a gift for sound manipulation, and she doesn't want to risk surgery unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“And I take it it’s not necessary?” A knowing smile starting to spread across Whitney’s face.

“It’s not, because it’s not hyperthyroidism.” John grins. “As I was checking to see if her medical history was correct, I noticed she kept turning her head to the side, facing me with her left ear. I asked if she was hard of hearing, and that’s when she sometimes goes temporarily deaf, but ‘it goes away, so it’s not a big deal.’” He rolls his eyes, as he recounts the story.

“Temporary deafness is not a big deal? How can you stand working with such idiots?” Whitney groans, John chuckling at her bluntness.

“The second I heard that I knew what was wrong. Pretty much all the symptoms were there, it’s almost a text book case of Ménière's disease. I ordered the tests to confirm.”

“Not that you needed the confirmation”

“Well I didn't need it, but the records do.” John says offhandedly “That sounded cockier than it was meant to.” He laughs.

“Not really, with your level of gift, your word should be good enough.” Whitney states matter-of-factly.

A slight flush spreads spreading across John’s face. “You flatter me.”

“I really don’t” Whitney says softly with look John could swear was pure adoration. “But that reminds me. There’s an exhibit on medical mysteries at the Museum of Natural History. It spans from the Georgian era up until modern day.  I figured given your skills, you might like to go….with me….that is, if you’re interested.” She finishes, suddenly mesmerized by her hands.

Ducking down, John tires to catch Whitney’s eye. “Of course, yeah, I’d love to go.” Beaming, Whitney rockets forward, capturing John in a kiss.

“Did you expect me to say no?” John asks as he pulls back after a minute.

“Well…I’d hoped you wouldn't, but I couldn't be certain.” Admits Whitney, her hand still resting on John’s neck.

“Someone as amazingly observant as you? I don’t believe it”

Her cheeks coloring, “I've never fully been able to read you.”  Whitney says, her eyes averted.

After a few silent moments, John brings the conversation back to when Whitney wants to go.

“We can go this weekend if you want. It’s already been open for a few weeks, so I don’t think there’ll be too much of a crowd.” The excitement evident in Whitney’s voice.

 

They sit for a while longer, and when the light begins to grow dusky, they parted ways with one last kiss, until Saturday.

As John heads for his flat, he can’t help being completely baffled as to why someone as, frankly, amazing, as Whitney, would be so shy and nervous about asking him out. If anything, he thinks, he should be the nervous one, he’s the one playing way out of his league.

But who is he to question it when some type of god has decided to smile upon him, because gaining the affections of Whitney Holmes has to be the work of a higher power, John figures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well their first date when amazingly, I wonder how date number two will go?
> 
> Again, apologies for any errors or stilted sounding conversations.


	9. Behaving Like a Couple of Teenagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Whitney solve some medical mysteries, and reach a turning point in their relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, it gets weird.

Saturday arrives, and it’s late morning when John arrives outside the museum. He’s fifteen minutes early, but the butterflies filing his gut and chest wouldn’t calm down, and sitting around the flat wasn’t helping. Not that hanging around museum is helping much either. After fifteen minutes of alternating between pacing back and forth in front of the museum entrance, and fiddling with his phone, John looks up to see Whitney walking towards him. To John’s utter amazement, Whitney’s dressed casually for once, clad in a simple pair of jeans, a thin short sleeved t-shirt, and sneakers.

Giving John brief greeting, and quick peck on the mouth, Whitney grabs his hand, all but dragging him into the museum.

“Picking up for Holmes.” Whitney says, practically leaning over the admission desk in the lobby to snatch up their tickets.

“Someone’s excited!” John chuckles when Whitney returns.

“Please, I just want see how many of these so called ‘mysteries’, a couple of competent eyes can solve!” Whitney says, trying and failing to hide her excitement.

Taking John’s hand and weaving their fingers together, Whitney pulls John towards the doors to the exhibit. Over the next several hours, they go from one display to the next examining case notes, studying the glass protected samples, and discussing possible causes. At one point Whitney even tells John to block her from view, and be a lookout as she opens one of the display cases to get a sniff of the clothes of a patient who died in infancy.

 

“Perk of having worked here, I can get around the security system” Whitney reassures John.

“Wonderful, just hurry up.” John hisses under his breath.

Holding the clothes up to her noise, Whitney contemplates them for a few moments before finally speaking again. “Strong sugary smell, almost like maple syrup.” She then turns to John, as if waiting for his final diagnosis.

“Definitely MSUD.” John nods. “Now up that back before we get kicked out!”

 

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon by the time the leave, fortunately without being run off by museum staff, and John asks if Whitney would like to grab a bite to eat. They end up going to a small hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, which according to the door handle, has excellent lo mein.

“This used to be a great Greek place. I used to come here all the time when I was in uni, they had the best gyros. I wonder when it closed” John muses casually.

“Four years ago.” Whitney says absent mindedly

“Ok, I’ll give you the door handle thing. But how do you know that?” John says skeptically

“I may not have been here permanently until recently, but I HAVE been home periodically over the years.” Whitney retorts matter-of-factly

“I will never get over that memory you have.”

“…The menus also say ‘Proudly serving you since 2011’, so there’s that.” Whitney says with a sly smile. John lets out a bark of laughter, and playfully pushes Whitney’s leg under the table, to which Whitney retaliates. This only encourages John more, and before long they’re behaving like a couple of teenagers, and not two professionals in their early thirties.

 

Once the food is finished, and their battle ends in a stalemate, they leave the restaurant. Neither wanting to leave each other just yet, they start aimlessly walking.

“That bastard!” Whitney exclaims, stopping abruptly.

Confused, John starts looking around “What? Who?” He asks.

“Mycroft. That’s the third CCTV camera to track us as we walk past.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence” John says, being met with only a glare “Ok, you’re right. What are you going to do?”

Whitney scans the area, “Lose him, of course. Come on, this way.” They start to run, Whitney in the lead, ducking through back alleys and side streets.

“Do you know where you’re going?” John pants, thankful he took up running again.

“Of course, I've had this city memorized since I was a kid.” Whitney says dismissively. “Baker Street’s just down here. He hasn't had time to replace the bugs there.”

 

* * *

 

Hurrying back to Baker Street, John and Whitney are through the door and straight down into 221C. In a fit of giggles, they collapse onto Whitney’s garish couch, and attempt to regain their breath.

“That was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.” John pants, turning his head to the side, his nose inches from Whitney’s.

Slowly inching towards John, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Whitney breaths.

“Did I hear you right, Mycroft hasn't had the chance to  _replace_ the bugs?” asks John quietly, his eyes slipping closed.

“Yeah, the prick thinks just because he controls the empire, he has the right to monitor my life.” Whitney mutters, moving ever closer. “I have to do a sweep for video and audio every so often. Did one this morning, and found a couple in here. One behind the flag, and one in the TV. The idiots thought I wouldn't notice the light on in the corner, not realizing it’s not plugged in.” John can feel her breath and the occasional brush of her lips against his, as she speaks.

“Definitely idiots.” Finally closing the distances, John captures her mouth. Without breaking the kiss, Whitney quickly climbs into John’s lap, legs on either side of his, burying her hands in his hair.

“Even found a camera in the overhead light of my bedroom. The pervert.”

“Disgusting” John murmurs, hands gripping Whitney’s hips, pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. “Wait, that’s actually really disturbing.” He says, pulling back.

“Yeah,” Whitney hums. “But John, I  _really_ don’t want to be talking about my brother right now.” Then, rolling her hips slightly, Whitney leans down and begins kissing his jaw just below his ear.

“Agreed.”

 

Whitney’s hands start to move down John’s chest, working at the buttons of his shirt.

“What is it?” Whitney asks when John stills her progress.

“I just want to make sure we’re not moving too fast.” John says, attempting to catch his breath. “This is only our second date after all.”

“Well that all depends on when you started counting our dates.” Whitney smirks, leaning down to kiss John again, her hands returning to his shirt.

“Oh, and when did you start counting?”

“That day….in the bookstore…when I came to your rescue.” Whitney says, punctuating her answer with kisses.

Moments later, John’s shirt is on the floor, followed quickly by his vest. Whitney starts to slowly feel John’s now exposed chest, thankfully still retaining some of the tone from the army, her hand brushing the starburst shaped scar on his shoulder. Her eyes immediately drawn to the raised, uneven skin, she slowly begins tracing it with her fingers.

Suddenly John feels embarrassed by the angry scar. “Sorry about that. I know it’s not pleasant to look at.” He quietly mutters.

“No, it’s perfect.” Whitney says, barely above a whisper. “It’s what brought you back.” At that, John surges forward, capturing Whitney’s mouth once more. Soon Whitney lifts her arms above her head as John pushes her shirt off her.

“Really? Bees?” John laughs, catching sight of the bee print bra Whitney is wearing.

“What?” Whitney says, sounding a bit confused. “Oh. Shut up, I like bees.” Whitney then pushes John down so that he’s laying on his back on the couch, as she lays on top of him. Whitney mouthing at John’s scar, John’s hands roaming along Whitney’s back, neck, and in to her hair, they lay like this, completely wrapped in one another, for several minutes.

“Wait, not here. Not on Mrs. Hudson’s couch. Follow me.” Whitney gasps, detangling herself from John, and pulling him towards her bedroom.

“And you’re sure you found all of Mycroft’s bugs.” John teases.

“Positive. And what did I say about talking about my brother at a time like this?”

“Mmm, right. Shutting up now.” John grins as Whitney pulls him onto the bed with her.

 

Lying there, hands and lips charting ever bit of exposed skin, John’s hands reach the waist of Whitney’s jeans. “Is this ok? Are you sure you want this?” John asks, toying with the fly.

Whitney nods. “Yes. You don’t know who much I do.” She breathes.

Undoing the fly and working her jeans down her narrow hips, John has to bite back a laugh. “I see it’s a set.” He says, seeing the matching bee print pants.

Whitney can’t quite pull of the stern look she wants to give John, as he begins to kiss her hipbones, tonguing a single freckle on her right hip. He starts kissing back up her abdomen, up her sternum, pausing at her neck to outline her prominent collar bones.

Whitney, fighting a groan, pulls John back up to reclaim his mouth, her hands start undoing his fly, and pushes his jeans down and off. With their jeans out of the way, John takes Whitney’s right leg and hooks it over his hip. They stay like this, moving together for minutes, hours, days, time losing all meaning, lips only separating long enough to breathe.

 

“Please, John. Please now.” Whitney whimpers, sliding her hand down the front of John’s boxers, taking him in hand. And with some fumbling, a plain pair of boxers, and a bee pattern set fall to the floor.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” John exhales, in absolute awe of the beauty lying before him

“High praise.” Whitney nervously laughs, before moving up towards the head of the bed to slip under the soft, cool sheets.

“Do you have any…” John starts.

“Top drawer.” Whitney says, motioning vaguely to the bedside table.

 

Once prepared, John’s mouth finds Whitney’s again, and slowly starts to push in. While he takes his time, her breathy gasps and against his lips, moaning as he moves deeper, cause John to fight to control the urge to thrust in all at once. Fully seated, John stills, allowing Whitney to accommodate to him. After a minute or so, Whitney starts to rock up against John’s pelvis, telling him he can move. John’s thrusts start off shallow, slowly working up to longer, and deeper movements. Hands roaming up and down his back, Whitney mouths along John’s neck and shoulders, rising up to meet and match John’s pace. After what feels like both an eternity, and a matter of seconds, Whitney is arching off the bed as her climax crashes over her with a broken cry, John following only moments later.

Slowly coming down from their shared high, John carefully pulls out and disposes of the condom, before settling back in the bed with Whitney curling around him. Once his senses have cleared, John hears a soft sniffle, and looking down at Whitney, he sees her eyes look wet.

“Oh god. What is it? What’s wrong?” John’s voice giving away the panic he’s feeling.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Whitney says, stifling yet another sniffle.

“It’s not nothing. You’re crying.” John says softly, tilting Whitney’s face up, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“It’s just been so long since someone’s made me feel like that. Thank you.” Whitney quietly admits.

Pulling her too him, John slowly starts kissing Whitney, first her forehead, then each eyelid, along her cheeks, and on the tip of her nose. Finally capturing her lips again, John pours everything not said into the kisses.

It isn't long before John is at full hardness again as Whitney straddles his lap, taking him in again. Not waiting to get accustom to the position, they begin moving together slowly, John’s hands on her hips and back, holding her to him, guiding her down as he thrusts up. All too soon, Whitney begins to rock faster, her movements becoming more erratic, and John can feel her muscles fluttering around him. Moaning his name over and over again, Whitney tumbles over the edge, her fingers digging into John’s skin, her muscles contracting tightly

“Oh god! Oh Shhh…”  John groans, his own orgasm slamming into him.

With his heart rate returned to normal, and with Whitney once again wrapped in his arms, John feels the ties of sleep start to pull him under

“John?” Whitney says quietly, nuzzling her head into John’s chest.

“Hmmm?” John murmurs, eyes closed, sleep closing in.

“I have to tell you…” But whatever it is Whitney has to tell John, he doesn't hear it, sleep having finally claimed him.

 

* * *

 

The next morning John wakes up, his eyes still closed, to the feeling of a familiar tickle against his cheek. Letting out a contented sigh, he pulls the body next to him tight against his chest. But instead of feeling the softness of Whitney’s small breasts, John feels the hard, flat plain of an all too familiar broad chest.

Eyes snapping open, John finds himself entangled, not with Whitney, but with the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop there it is. Told you it got weird (though I'm about a subtle as a heart attack, so I'm sure it wasn't much of a twist).
> 
> Next up: The confrontation, and we see how John handles this early morning surprise.
> 
> (MSUD stands for Maple Syrup Urine Disease, a genetic condition where the body can't breakdown certain amino acids, resulting in sweet smelling urine. Left untreated, babies suffer brain damage and die. But with proper treatment and diet management, those affected can lead fairly healthy lives without neurological damage.)


	10. What Kind of Idiot Do You Take Me For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock, and Sherlock desperately tries to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild language ahead, but nothing you all haven't seen before. And the weirdness continues.

Once his brain processes what his eyes are seeing, Sherlock Holmes wrapped around him, sound asleep, John immediately starts straggling to de-tangle himself, the movement waking the sleeping man.

“Mmmm, John” Sherlock hums sleepily “Is something wron….” He starts to ask, before freezing upon hearing his own voice.

“Sher..Sherlock!? What…What the fuck are you doing here?” John sputters, struggling to the floor and pulling on his discarded boxers and jeans. “What the fuck is going on!?”

Panicking, Sherlock sits up, moving towards John. “John, listen. I can explain!”

“Where’s Whitney?” John demands, looking around.

“She’s not here. Or…well, she is but….”

“Oh my god! OH GOD!” John interrupts. “I should have known. This was a set up, wasn’t it?” finally rounding on Sherlock.

“No, John. No, I swear it wasn’t.” Sherlock’s voice quivering slightly as he attempts to reassure John.

But John’s not listening. “You didn’t toy with me enough before, so you set your sister on me?!” His voice getting louder and louder. “Did you two have fun, messing with my head  _just_ as I was moving on from the past? I knew it! I knew it was mistake, getting involved with another Holmes!”

Sherlock’s now pleading. “John, please listen!”

“I can’t believe I was worried I was using her because she reminded me so much of you!” John laughs humorlessly.

“DAMMIT JOHN!” Sherlock finally bellows. “She IS me!” And just like that, all the air has been sucked from the room, all sounds cease.

“What did you say?” John asks, his voice deathly quiet.

“I…I said she is me.” Sherlock mumbles, avoiding John’s eyes. “I am Whitney.”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” John scoffs, leveling Sherlock with a cold glare. “I may not be a Holmes genius, but I do know the difference between a man and a woman.”

“No, I’m not saying…” Sherlock starts. “It’s that…”

“It’s what? Spit it out!”

“I don’t have a gift of observation and deduction; I’m just good at them.” Sherlock blurts, and is met with only John’s cold stare.

With a sigh, Sherlock continues. “I mean that’s not my ability. Whitney is my ability, my ‘gift.’ I can shape shift into the female version of myself.” Shifting into Whitney’s form for a split second, before returning back to himself, Sherlock looks exhausted and defeated.

“John, please say something!” Sherlock begs a speechless John.

“How many people know? How many people have been laughing at my stupidity? Molly? Greg?” John asks, teeth clenched, heart rate elevated and feeling a panic set in. “Oh god. Does Mike know? Is that why he warned me off Whitney? Off you?”

“No one.” Sherlock, trying to convince John, reaches out to him. “Only my parents, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson know. I swear. I swear no one is laughing to you.”

“And how can I trust you? You have been lying to be since the beginning.”

“You can’t.” Sherlock says quietly. “But I am telling you the truth. My parents told me to keep it a secret, to let no one outside the family know. But I wanted to tell you…I was going to tell you.” He admits.

“Rather convenient after I found out on my own” John huffs. “I’m not an idiot, Sherlock”

“I swear, John. I swear I was going to tell you that day we ended…The day I ruined everything.” Sherlock adds, a tear in his voice.

“The day I begged you to stay, laid my heart bare? The day you told me I meant nothing to you, that I was just convenient? That was the day you were going to tell me your biggest secret. Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” John’s cold laughter clearly hurting Sherlock, but he finds he can’t bring himself to care too much.

Sherlock’s head falls to his chest, eyes looking anywhere but at John. “Yes. But then you told me you were leaving, and I got scared.”

“You got scared?” John says, still not able to believe Sherlock’s words. “I told you then that me joining the army didn’t change anything between us, change our relationship. And it  _was_ a relationship, I don’t care what you say.”

“I know. I didn’t want to take that final step, only for you to leave me right after.” Sherlock finally looks back up at John, giving voice to his ten year old fears. “Being away from me could have cleared your head, and you could have realized just how wrong I was for you. Or worse, you could have been killed. I would have given you the very last bit of me, you would have owned me completely, and you would have been gone.” His eyes filling with tears.

The only sound in the room is John’s deep breaths, so Sherlock continues. “I thought if I kept that one last piece of me back, if I pushed you away, I would be safe. I was wrong, I was stupid. You already owned me, and you were gone. You were gone, and I lost even the hope of you coming back to me, I was lost. I didn’t understand my feelings then, I still don’t understand them now, but I did love you. I was in love you then, and I’m in love with you now.” And with those final confessions, the tears finally begin to fall freely. And still John remains silent.

“Please say something.” Sherlock begs him, now kneeling on the side of the bed.

John finally moves, beginning to pace the length of the bedroom. “I can’t hear this right now, I can’t.  I was so in love with you back then, and you broke my heart. I carried that hurt for ten years, I wanted to hate you. I tried to hate you, but I couldn’t stop loving you.” He rambles, not seeing the look of fearful hope bloom behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“But now you’ve done it again. You lied to me, you posed as ‘Whitney’, made me feel something for her, maybe even love her, only to betray me again. Why, Sherlock? Why would you do this to someone you claim to love?” John asks, coming to a stop and looking Sherlock in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…I can explain.” Sherlock sniffles, now coming to stand in front of John.

“I don’t want to hear it.” John cuts him off. “I don’t know if I can believe it.”

“Please John.”

“No, this is too much to process. I need to think.” John says, shaking his head as he heads to the sitting room to find his shirt.

Sherlock is left standing in the doorway to the bedroom, clad in only a sheet. “Will I ever see you again? Will you ever let me explain?” he asks, clearly broken.

“I don’t know…yes.” John says. “But right now I just need time. I’ll…I’ll contact you when I’m ready to hear what you have to say. If I’m ready.” He adds. “But please, Sherlock, just give me space.” And with that, John is up and out the door of 221 Baker Street, not even sparing a moment to notice Mrs. Hudson watching from behind the door of her own flat, and into the early Sunday morning air.

 

* * *

 

After that morning, John throws himself into his work. He takes all the shifts he can at the clinic, even volunteering to work overnight shifts at the 24 hour urgent care center. John takes the longer route to work to avoid the café that he had come to love so much, but now only makes his chest ache for something that turned out to only be a lie. John shuts everything out but his work. He avoids taking calls from friends, barely engages with co-workers, not knowing how to explain the situation.

 

Finally after nearly three weeks of radio silence, John answers a call from Greg, and that’s only because Greg’s last voice mail said he was going to send a squad to John’s flat.

“Jesus John! We were getting worried.” The relief evident in Greg’s voice, even over the phone.

“We?”

“Me and Molly. She told me that Mike mentioned to her that he hadn’t heard from you. You weren’t responding to me. Molly even had me check police reports to make sure you hadn't been attacked or worse. What happened?”

“Nothing happened…Just… how much do you know?” John asks cautiously.

“How much do I know about what? You just disappeared, no explanation.” John could practically hear Greg’s furrowed brow.

“I...aah…”John pauses. “I lost a friend, and it hit me hard.” Sure he’s lying, but it feels like the truth.

“Oh Christ, mate. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Greg asks.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” John says, trying to sound convincing. “I’m kind of distracting myself with work right now. But I’m fine. Thank you though.”

“Alright.” Greg says, sounding skeptical. “But if you need anything, just say the word. And don’t hide away too much.”

“I know, I know. I’ll…I’ll give you a call when I’ve got myself sorted.” John does appreciate Greg’s concern, but he just can’t bring himself to talk about what’s wrong. Not yet at least.

 

* * *

 

John takes his conversation with Greg to heart, and while he can’t talk to anyone about what he’s going through, unable to reveal Sherlock’s secret or his own foolishness, John can do what he told Sherlock he would do. John can think, John can quit running from the problem, and really think if he even wants to hear Sherlock’s explanation. And so John thinks, he considers what Sherlock did to him, both ten years ago, and now. John weighs what he knows and feels for Sherlock, what he went through with ‘Whitney’, what hearing Sherlock’s reasons for lying to him and deceiving him again, will do to him. And for all his thinking, John is no closer to knowing what to do than he was when he stormed out of Baker Street. 

 

It’s one month since he learned the truth, and John  is sitting in his office when he hears the familiar click of expensive shoes, and the tap tap tap of an umbrella tip hitting linoleum. With a tired sigh, John looks up to find Mycroft Holmes standing at his door.

“Took you long enough to get here.” John mutters under his breath, before plastering on his most obviously fake smile. “It’s always wonderful to see you, Mycroft. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need to know what you are going to do about my brother, Dr. Watson. Or is it my  _sister_ ?” The bureaucrat sneers.

“Ah, right to the point. I honestly don’t know.” John admits. “And you’re the last person I want to be having this conversation with.”

“Believe me, Dr. Watson, this is the last conversation I wish to be having. But it needs to be had.” Mycroft’s tone leaving no doubt to the seriousness of what he is saying. “Ever since your most recent spat, Sherlock is not in a good way. And I fear he will fall back into his old ways as he did the last time you exited his life.”

“ _I_ exited  _his_ life? He’s the one who left me!” John barks.

“Semantics, Dr. Watson. Semantics.” Mycroft’s voice remaining calm.

“Fine, you want to hear me say it? I still love your brother, and I never really stopped. Then he made me fall in love with him again as someone else. But I don’t know if that’s enough.” John caves, slumping under the weight of his confession. “He lied and manipulated me, and I don’t think I can trust him ever again.”

“While I cannot claim to approve of what my brother did, I can assure you there was no malice in his actions.” For once, Mycroft sounds sincere. “He acted on a foolish instinct, and the situation got rapidly out of his control.”

“‘The situation’? That’s what you’re calling this?” John mumbles.

“It is not my place to say this…”

“That never stopped you before.”

“It is not my place,” Mycroft continues, “but my brother was willing to give up everything for you. Keep that in mind when you finally make your decision.”

“Give up everything, how?” John asks.

“Not my place, Dr. Watson. Not my place.” Turning to leave, Mycroft lays a folder on John’s desk. “Before I go, you may find this…enlightening.”

“What is it?” John asks, flipping the folder open to the top page.

“Only the civilian ‘visitor’ log, and surveillance photos from a military field hospital in Iraq. Take care, Dr. Watson.”

Looking back down at the pile of papers in front of him, John sees a civilian clearance form for a ‘William Scott’ dated that past November, just a few days after he had been shot. All the photos bore the same date as well, and all showed John lying on a cot, bandaged and hooked up to fluids, clearly unconscious. But it’s not the image of himself looking like death warmed over, that takes John’s breath. No, it’s the tall, thin figure with a head of disheveled black curls, sitting next to his bed, that halts John’s breathing and jump starts his heart. Photo after photo shows Sherlock Holmes clutching John’s hand, his lips kissing John’s palm, Sherlock smoothing the hair on John’s fevered brow, caressing his flushed cheeks, and finally, Sherlock slumped over with his head resting on the cot; praying, sleeping, or sobbing, John can’t tell. For what appears to be hours according to the photo time-stamps, Sherlock Holmes sat vigil at John’s bedside, and John had no idea.

 

* * *

 

When John gets back to his flat that evening, he finally sends a text.

_"Thursday. Café. 3 pm. – JW”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, the whole shape-shifting thing is so eff-ing lame. I hope you're not too disappointed.
> 
> Next up, John gets some answers.


	11. Rebuild and Going From There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John agrees to hear Sherlock out, and Sherlock attempts to make it up to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people think "emotional" Sherlock is OOC, but the canon has clearly shown when it comes to John, all bets are off. Canon Sherlock is a big emotional mess, barely holding it together, when John is involved.

Thursday afternoon, John arrives at the café a half hour early to see Sherlock already sitting there waiting, knees bouncing, head looking around. As always, Sherlock is impeccably dress, but Mycroft was right, he doesn't look to be in a good way. He looks even thinner than before, his clothes looking two sizes too large, his already pale skin taking on an almost translucent quality. Without realizing it John feels an involuntary pang of concern, some habits are hard to break.

Sherlock turns to look at the door just as John walks in, and catching sight of him, stands so quickly his chair almost topples to the floor. “John, you came.” He breathes in relief, eyes swimming with worry, hope, and doubt.

“I contacted you, remember.” John says, trying to remain calm. “You’re here early.”

Sherlock fumbles around for his chair as he sits back down, eyes never leaving John. “I…ah…I didn't want to risk missing you.”

“Ah. So, you’re…you.” John comments after a brief pause, allowing himself to look Sherlock over.

“I wasn't exactly sure who you would rather see. I figured it would be best to come as myself. I can change if you want.” Sherlock hastily adds.

“No. No, I want to talk to the real you. That is Sherlock, right?”

“Yes. I've always been…me.” Sherlock says, sitting up straight, focusing on the facts. “It wasn't until I was eleven when the shifting started. Even then, I always thought of myself as Sherlock.”

“So Whitney was just, what? A cover?” John asks, fighting to keep his voice level.

Sherlock takes a moment to compose himself. “In a way, yes. But also, no. What we were able to figure out is Whitney is exactly who I would have been had I been born female. She has the exact same genetic makeup, only second X instead of a Y. She has my memories, my personality. Whitney  _is_ me, just an alternate transport.” He states, before gesturing to himself, “Granted, I am more comfortable like this.”

“But everything about her past, everything she told me,  _you_ told me. That was a lie.” John’s expression like stone.

“Of omission, yes. I twisted of the truth, yes.” Sherlock admits quietly. “But everything Whitney told you,  _I_ really did. I did study in Germany, it was just after we knew each other in university. A W.S.S. Holmes did hold a position in Leipzig, William Sherlock Scott, not Whitney Stockhart Sara. And it was freelance, not permanent.”

“And when I saw you at Bart’s? What was that?”

“Ah, yes. I was on a case that was taking longer than I hoped. I needed to focus, so I told you I was going away.  I really did examine those texts, but it was two years ago.”

“You had to focus. Fantastic, I was in the way.” John snorts, shaking his head.

“No, John, no. You were never in the way. I just wanted the case to be over, so I wasn’t distracted when we were together.” Sherlock’s voice taking on a desperate edge.

“Alright, say I believe you. Nothing explains why you pretended to be Whitney with me.” Sherlock remains silent, refusing to meet John’s eyes, looking guilty. “You have to tell me Sherlock. I need to know.”

Finally, Sherlock begins to cautiously speak, “What you have to know first is that in the course of my work, I sometimes use Whitney as a way to go undercover, to get more information.”

“Ok” John says slowly, unclear as to where Sherlock is going.

“The day we met again, the day you met Whitney,” continues Sherlock. “I had just finished a case for Mycroft. I was just giving him the final detail to wrap it up, when I saw you again. Everything I tried for the last decade to bury, to delete, came rushing back.”  He breathes, shoulders falling.

“And you decided to lie to me?”

“I know it was wrong, I know. But I thought it was my chance to have you back in my life.” Sherlock says, looking down at the table. “I ruined everything before, and you would have never wanted to see me again. I know I was stupid, but I missed you so much.”

“I would have wanted to see you again.” John says quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock’s eyes snap back up to John. “You would?”

“I’m not saying I would have wiped the slate clean. I carried that hurt and anger for ten years, but you were my best friend. We could have found a way to at least be friends again.” John sighs, sounding and feeling defeated.

Sherlock’s brow furrows, confusion written all over his face. “But that day in the lab….and after, when you said you didn't think I would care about taking advantage of others?”

“You all but ran from the room at the earliest convenience. You clearly didn't want anything to do with me. It was a self-preservation thing.” John scoffs, his volume increasing. “But this isn't about me. This is about you, about what you were doing with  _Whitney_ .”

“Honestly? I just wanted to spend time with you again.”

“And you were just going to keep what, leading some double life? Be Whitney when you were with me, then just go back to being yourself? You of all people have to have known that was never going to work out” John laughs, not believing what he is hearing.

“Yes, but I thought I could do it. I thought I could compartmentalize. Then that night you kissed me, the night you walked with me to Baker Street.”

“I remember.” John briefly smiles at the memory, before schooling his features once more.

“It made me realize I couldn't keep it up, I didn't want to keep it up.” Sherlock explains, his voice shaking slightly. “I hadn't planned on perusing anything romantic with you, but kissing you again after all those years made me realize that I loved you now more than ever.”

John can feel his heart beating faster, his breathing increasing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that…I’m saying that I decided to become Whitney permanently, giving up my life as Sherlock, if it meant I could be with you.” Sherlock says, letting out a deep breath.

“Oh Sherlock, no. No you can’t be serious! Denying your entire identity, forcing you to live in a body not your own? No, it wouldn't have been worth it.” John exclaims, briefly forgetting his anger at the man sitting across from him.

“I've had twenty years experience as Whitney,” Sherlock states. “And yes, it would have taken time to get used to always being her, and it would have been uncomfortable, but I was willing to do it. My parents would have understood, Mrs. Hudson just wanted me to be happy, and I don’t care what Mycroft thought. You are worth anything and everything.” He finishes softly.

“And your work?” John asks, raising an eyebrow. “Being a detective, solving puzzles, it’s what you love, it’s what you always wanted. You couldn't give that up for me.”

“I do love the Work,” Sherlock says, “but I love you more. And I do find language patterns interesting, I would have been happy with Whitney’s work, if it meant having you by my side. ” He admits. “That next day, after our first date, I called Lestrade to tell him that I was leaving London. I told him I wanted to see what crimes the rest of the world had to offer.”

“God Sherlock” is all John can say, his chest feeling tight.

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth” replies Sherlock.

“Alright, alright.” John says, collecting himself. “If you really were committed to being Whitney full time, then what happened after we…After the museum?” Sherlock says nothing. “Sherlock, what was it?”

“I think my body, my  _emotions_ ,” Sherlock grimacing at the word. “finally got the better of me.” he says, finally meeting John’s eyes. “It’s always taken a level of concentration to hold Whitney’s form. Over time the amount of focus I need has diminished, so it’s become almost second nature.” He explains before continuing. “But after that night, after being with you again, I realized I couldn't lie anymore. I was going to tell you everything, and deal with the consequences.”

John can’t help but feel skeptical. “You were going to tell me?”

“Yes. I started to, but you fell asleep.” Sherlock answers firmly, then falters slightly. “I couldn't bring myself to wake you and tell you. It was selfish, I know, but I wanted one last night with you, wrapped around you, before it all ended.”

“Ok, alright. So waking up with Sherlock and not Whitney was your way of telling me?” John huffs.

Shaking his head, Sherlock hastily tries to explain. “No. Like I said, I think my emotions got the better of me. I was so exhausted, emotionally… and physically,” he blushes, “that I think when I fell asleep my body sort of reset. I lost focus, and couldn't stay as Whitney. I knew I had to stop lying to you, so I think my body decided to just start telling the truth right away.”

For the first time in over a month, John lets out a small, but genuine laugh, looking at Sherlock with a sad, wistful smile on his face.

“I am sorry, John. For all the pain I caused, I can never say I’m sorry enough. And I know it’s too much to ask for, but I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” A yearning evident in Sherlock’s voice.

“I want to forgive you, Sherlock. I've missed you so much, I want to forgive you and have this all be in the past. But I’m still so angry, I still feel so hurt.” John says seriously.

Sherlock give a quick nod, and begins to push away from the table. “I understand.”

“Hey, no!” John says quickly, grabbing Sherlock’s hand for the first time. “I want to  _try_ to forgive you. I meant what I said before, you are the best friend I ever had. My life has always been better with you in it.” He says with all honesty. “Whether it was with you at Uni, or my time with you as Whitney, I've never been happier. I want you in my life. So even though I’m hurt and angry, I want to work through this.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks, voice cracking, eyes fixed on their joined hands.

“Yes.” John nods. “I’m not saying we pick up where we left off. Let’s just try to rebuild our friendship, and go from there. Can you do that?”

“Yes, god yes!” Sherlock all but shouts. “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

“Sherlock, I just said…”

“No, not like that. As friends, or see-if-we-can-be-friends. You told me about the last ten years of your life, I think it’s only fair I return the favor. And not with half-truths this time.” Sherlock clarifies, sounding worried.

John takes a moment, and with a deep breath, agrees. “Alright, Ok. Dinner, I think I can do that.”

“Thank you, John. Thank you so much” Sherlock breathes, squeezing John’s hand.

They sit for a bit in silence, hands still locked, not looking at each other. “I should be going, I need to let people know that Sherlock Holmes has changed his mind, and wants to keep dealing with British crimes.” Sherlock says eventually, the first genuine smile blooming across his face

“Oh, yeah, go ahead. The Yard must be completely lost without you.” John chuckles.

“Without a doubt. I’ll….I’ll text you about tomorrow. I can’t thank you enough” And with one last smile and squeeze of the hand, Sherlock is out the door

John sits at the table for a bit longer, his hand still tingling from where it had held Sherlock’s. “Good going Watson,” he murmurs to himself, “looks like you’re just as gone on him as ever.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, John gets a text

' _There’s a small Italian place near Baker Street, the food is good. Does 7 pm work for you? – SH’_

John smiles to himself before replying.

_'Make it 7:30. – JW’_

Just because he wants to forgive the man doesn't mean he’s going to make it easy for him.

_'Excellent. It’s called Angelo’s, it’s on Northumberland Street. Thank you again. – SH’_

* * *

 

John meets Sherlock outside Angelo’s the next day, and though it’s only been one day, Sherlock looks healthier. The color having returned to his face, Sherlock is positively aglow with nervous, excited energy. His hair, which yesterday looked dull and lank, is back to the shiny, loose curls John remembers so fondly. And while he is still looking a bit too thin, his clothes no longer hang off him, his aubergine shirt fitting perfectly across his chest and over his shoulders, his trousers hugging his narrow hips and falling in a clean line down his long legs. John feels positively sloppy in comparison, with his jeans and blue checkered button down. Shaking himself from his thoughts, telling himself there’s no need to worry about how they look in comparison; he’s not Sherlock’s date, John follows Sherlock into the restaurant

 

If John didn't know any better he’d swear he entered the place with royalty. Angelo himself came rushing to great them as they stepped through the door. He seats them in “the best seat in the house”, the front window with the L shaped seating. Clasping a clearly uncomfortable Sherlock around the shoulders, Angelo explains how Sherlock got him off a murder charge. He leaves them with a promise that everything is on the house for Sherlock and his friend, absolutely beaming at the word friend.

“Ah, so that’s why you picked this place. It’s free.” John smiles once they've settled into their seats.

“That’s not the only reason. The food is quite good” Sherlock pouts slightly.

 

Once they've ordered, Sherlock keeps his word, and starts to tell John about the last decade of his life. Feeling the need to get it off his chest and allow John to enter into this renewed friendship with open eyes, Sherlock explains about developing a drugs habit during the end of university, and through his graduate degree.

“Not my wisest decision, but it helped me focus. It kept me distracted.” Sherlock says sheepishly when John frowns, but doesn't pull away from him as Sherlock clearly feared.

“Really not good Sherlock. To risk your mind, your  _life_ , on something so dangerous.” John admonishes him, and rightfully so. “And to think better? I've never met anyone who thinks  _better_ than you!”

“Well no one ever accused me of making the best choices around that time. I tended to take good things, and throw them away. My mind, my health…other things.”

“You did, you really did.” John huffs, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, Mycroft nipped that in the bud anyway.” Sherlock refocuses, giving his head a little shake. “Got me sent off to rehab, this god awful facility in the Alps. He figured the isolation from all things familiar would help.”

“At least it was beautiful surroundings.” John offers.

“The aesthetic was pleasing, yes. But I was so bored.” Sherlock laments.

“I can imagine. How did you survive?”

“I told myself if I could fix this mistake, there’s a chance I could fix some others.” Sherlock admits quietly. “That, and I read. I read a lot.” He adds.

Choosing to ignore the first part of Sherlock’s comment, John focuses on the latter. “So is that where you got interested in languages?” He asks.

“Partially, yes. I was always rather adept at languages. I've been able to speak French since I was a child.”

John smirks, thinking of the many nights in university when he made  Sherlock babble in a mix of French and English. “Yes, I remember.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock blushes. “In my time there I distracted myself my teaching myself the Germanic languages, and examining the patterns, how they related to English.”

“Amazing.” John grins, felling that same familiar sense of awe that only Sherlock can inspire.

Sherlock’s blush deepens. “After I left the facility,” he continues. “I decided to continue the examination, and got another graduate degree in linguistics, from Leipzig. I don’t think I was ready to come back to London, I think I still needed the distraction.”

"You took the time you needed, and you got better. That’s what matters.” John says, offering Sherlock a small, reassuring smile.

“Do you really mean that?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Yes, of course. Being mad doesn't mean you stop caring.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock mumbles.

Feeling the conversation stray in to territory far too emotionally dangerous, John changes the topic to Sherlock’s work with the Yard, and him coming back to London.

“It was Molly, actually. She sent me an invitation to her and Grant’s wedding.”

A laugh bubbling up, “Greg! How do you still not know his name is Greg?” John shakes his head.

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “Greg, Grant. Both start with G.”

“It’s almost comforting to know some things will never change.” John laughs.

“Anyway, I decided to go. Molly had been a good friend,” Sherlock cringing like the very word ‘friend’ pains him. “especially during the bad times. She kept in contact, and even sent photos and case notes about some of her cadavers. Invaluable data, really. I felt I owed her.” He says with an air of smugness that is uniquely Sherlock. “Plus, Lestrade was rising through the ranks of the Yard, so I figured maybe I could get some useful information from him.”

“So clearly you wanted to share in your friends’ big day.” John chuckles. “I was actually invited too. I’d seen Greg a couple times when I was on leave. But I was in the middle of a tour, so….”

“I thought that might have happened. I won’t lie, I was a little hopeful you would be there.” Sherlock admits

John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it, before moving back after a few moments. “So that’s when you came back?”

“Yes. Being back made me realize how much I missed London.” Sherlock says, sitting up straighter. “And at the reception, Graham….Greg,” He corrects himself, “started telling me about some of the cases he’d been working. I was able to solve a few he was stuck on just standing there. I knew there was a desperate need for me back here if Scotland Yard’s finest were baffled by the simplest of cases.”

“Humble as always, I see.” John teases.

“Well, it is true.” Sherlock mutters, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Yeah, yeah it is.” John grins, taking Sherlock’s hand once again. Sherlock grins back.

 

As dinner progresses, John starts to forget that he’s mad at Sherlock, and just feels completely content sitting with him. Sherlock telling him about some of his more interesting cases, John marveling at his brilliance, he feels as if they were never apart.

“Though now I think Lestrade is annoyed at me for leaving so suddenly. He hasn't given me a single case since I've been ‘back’” Sherlock complains.

John just laughs at Sherlock’s sullen expression. “It’s been one day, Sherlock. I’m sure nothing has come up yet. Give it time.”

“Please, there is no doubt there’s a backlog of cases on which he needs help. And cold cases I could be solving.” Sherlock says incredulously.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“When he does finally admit defeat and calls me in, would you…would you maybe like to come along?” Sherlock asks hesitantly. “Only if you’re interested, of course.” He adds quickly.

“I would absolutely love it.” John grins. “Anything to distract me from that boring clinic!”

 

They are both still beaming when Angelo stops by again to see if they want any dessert. Both decline, and they leave, John stopping to thank Angelo for everything. Angelo just waves him off, “Anything for Sherlock and his _friend!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Outside of Angelo’s, John and Sherlock stand together, making their goodbyes.

“I’m glad we did this. I’m glad you told me about the last several years.” John says seriously.

“Me too.” Sherlock smiles softly. “I know I keep saying it, but thank you for giving me a chance to make up for my mistakes.”

“Hey, I told you that having you in my life makes it more interesting. So really, I’m just being selfish.” John kids.

“You are many things, John Watson, but selfish is not one of them.” Sherlock says quietly, and for several slightly awkward seconds, they look anywhere but each other.

“Well, I’d best be off.” John says, breaking the silence. “We…we should do this again.”

“Yes, yes, I’d like that. I have your number, you have mine. We’ll...um…we’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, great.” John nods awkwardly, as Sherlock offers his hand to shake.

“Oh screw it.” John breathes, pulling Sherlock towards him, one hand around on the back of his neck, the other fisted in the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him into a heated kiss.

Sherlock freezes for a second, before melting into the kiss. Cupping John’s cheek with one hand, Sherlock’s other arm snakes around John’s waist, pulling him in tighter. The kiss deepens as Sherlock slowly parts his lips, moaning slightly at the feel of John’s tongue brushing against his own.

The two part after several long minutes of exploring each other’s mouths, lips pink, cheeks flushed, arms still wrapped around each other.

“What about taking this slow, rebuilding our friendship before considering anything more?” Sherlock’s voice barely above a whisper, resting his forehead against John’s.

“We've been apart for ten years, and I’m sick of waiting. I want to rebuild our friendship with you by my side, not with the hope that you may, possibly, one day be back.” John says, looking Sherlock in the eyes, leaving no room for doubt.

“I want that too. I want that so much.” The words rushing out as Sherlock leans down, capturing John in another kiss. “Come back to Baker Street with me. We don’t have to do anything, I just don’t want to leave you yet.” Sherlock asks, when he finally pulls back.

“Lead the way.” John grins, taking Sherlock’s hand, fitting it perfectly in his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up....well, I think we all know what's going to happen next.
> 
> (Personal side note: I've always wondered what I'd look/be like if I get the exact same chromosomal make up, but my dad gave me the Y instead of the X. I guess my psudo would have to be ElliotSaxon instead of Ellie.)


	12. Every Fiber of My Being and My Whole Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock continue their reconciliation at Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% Grade A schmoopy smut.

The walk back to Baker Street passes in comfortable silence, their fingers laced together, completely absorbed in each other’s presence. Every so often Sherlock lifts their joined hands to his lips, brushing feather light kisses to John’s knuckles.

Upon reaching Baker Street, they enter 221 to find a note taped to the banister.

_'Sherlock dear, I've gone to my sister’s for the weekend. I won’t be back until late Sunday. Do enjoy yourself – Mrs. Hudson.’_

“I guess there is some benefit to having a psychic landlady.” John quips as he reads the note over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mildly psychic” Sherlock corrects him. “Did she draw a smiley face?”

“Look like it.” John says as he turns to head down to 221C.

“Actually, this is my flat.” Sherlock says, redirecting John to 221B. “Mrs. Hudson just lets me store some things in C. It reduces the risk of Lestrade or clients coming by and seeing female clothes. Besides, no one wants to rent C, the damp and all. Mrs. Hudson has told me I’ll have to move everything if she ever finds a tenant.” He rambling now, seeing John get tense upon realizing even the flat was a lie.

 

Following Sherlock up the stairs and into the sitting room, John takes a moment to look around. “Well, I guess this is what I’d expect your flat to look like.”

Despite the fact that almost every surface is covered by stacks of paper, it’s cozy. Two arm chairs sit on either side of the fireplace, a barely visible desk lies between the two large front windows, and a surprisingly comfortable looking leather couch sits along the wall opposite the fireplace.

“Is that a skull mounted on the wall? Wearing headphones?” John asks, stifling a laugh.

“Yes.” Sherlock says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wait,” John says spotting something, and makes his way over to the mantle. “Is that the skull I stole for your birthday?”

“Billy? Oh yes. He’s been my constant companion these ten years.” Sherlock smiles at the skull. “I even managed to smuggle him into rehab with me.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say.” John’s eyes going soft. “Actually, yes I do. You named the skull after yourself?”

“I have many talents, John, but naming things is not one of them.” After a brief pause, both burst into a fit of giggles.

 

Eventually their laughter fades away, and they are left facing each other in front of the fireplace. “Would you like some tea? I can make us some tea.”  Sherlock asks nervously, turning towards the equally cluttered kitchen.

“No, I don’t think I do.” John smirks, turning Sherlock back around, and cupping his face, kisses him softly. It starts off slow; just a lazy drag of lips against lips, but soon turns more urgent. Sherlock buries his hands in John’s hair, kissing him as if he’s very life depends on it. The kiss finally ends when Sherlock’s back hits the doorframe between the kitchen and sitting room. Head falling back against the wood, Sherlock gasps as John starts attacking his neck with teeth and tongue, their mutual want very apparent.

“Where’s your bedroom?” John growls, grinding himself down on Sherlock’s thigh, his hip grinding into Sherlock.

“Through…ah…through the kitchen.” Sherlock whimpers, swooping down to crash his lips into John’s, capturing his bottom lip between his own, sucking gently.

John slowly starts pushing him back through the kitchen, when Sherlock pulls away, breathless. “Are you sure about this?” He asks.

“Yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” John breaths, eyes still closed, trying to re-capture Sherlock’s mouth.

“I just don’t want you regretting this in the morning. I want you to be sure.” Sherlock’s lips gently brushing John’s as he speaks.

“My only regret is not going after you all those years ago. I need you, ten years is far too long to have gone without you, without being with you. I need this, I need you.” John says, punctuation every few words with a kiss.

“Well technically it’s only been a month since you’ve been with me.” Sherlock mumbles without thinking.

Raising an eyebrow, John stops them right outside the bedroom door. “Really, Sherlock? You want to bring that up  _now_ ?”

“Oh god, no. I’m sorry. Wrong time. Very wrong time!” Sherlock fumbles in a slight panic.

“Yeah, Sherlock, horrible timing.” John hums, leaning up to kiss Sherlock, pushing him the final way into the room.

 

They undress each other slowly, and with great reverence, hands roaming over each new bit of exposed skin, before finally falling back on to the bed, wearing only their pants. With lazy hands and kisses, John slowly moves down Sherlock’s body, relearning every inch of the body he has so desperately missed. Sherlock’s hands travel up John’s shoulders, into his hair. His small gasps as John nips at his flushed skin, only encourages John more.

“Up, come back up.  I need to kiss you.” Sherlock whimpers, tugging John back up to reclaim his mouth. They kiss for what seems like hours, rolling their hips together, cocks sliding together, separated by only a thin layer of cotton and silk. It is like no sensation John has felt before, or at least hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Let me touch you. Please, John. Please let me feel you.” Sherlock begs as he gasps for air.

John sits up, pushing himself off Sherlock, and slips his hands into the waistband of Sherlock’s expensive silk boxers. Sherlock lifts his hips just enough for John to tug the offending article down Sherlock’s long legs. John, quickly doing away with his own pants, drops them on the floor with the rest of their clothing.

John settles himself back on top of Sherlock, naked skin sliding against naked skin, nothing separating them. One, or perhaps both, lets out a loud gasp which soon turns into a throaty groan as they quickly resume their rocking. Eventually, John lifts himself up, and supporting himself on his right arm, brings his left in between them, wrapping his hand around both of them. Using their combine pre-cum, John slowly starts stroking up and down.

“Oh god! Oh J…John…more. Please more!” Sherlock moans into John’s mouth as John thumbs over their heads, applying just enough pressure to drive himself and Sherlock desperate.

“We need something, lube, lotion, anything!” John pants back, feeling frayed. Moving slightly out from under John, causing a slow and painfully tantalizing slide of heated skin, Sherlock roots around in his side drawer. Finding a half full bottle of lube, he pops the cap. Pouring a small amount on his palm, he takes over for John, stroking them together. John’s hand comes to cover Sherlock’s, and they lay there, stroking themselves, rutting against each other, biting each other’s lips, and panting into each other’s mouths.

John can feel Sherlock’s abdominal muscles start to tighten as he speeds up their hands. “John! Ahhh, John! I’m not going to last long..AH…I’m so close. I want to come with you inside me. I need to feel you inside me!” Sherlock moans, practically begging.

“How can you make even that sound like the most romantic words ever spoken?” John growls, slowly stopping his hand, and freeing Sherlock’s from under it. Leaning back, and finding the lube again, John coats his fingers, and starts carefully preparing Sherlock. Stretching him, first with one finger, than two, and finally with three.

“Maintenant , se il vous plaît maintenant! J'ai besoin de vous, maintenant. ” Sherlock gasps as John brushes his prostate.

Leaning down, John starts kissing along Sherlock’s prominent collar. “Christ, Sherlock! Do you have any idea what your voice does to me.”

“John, please. Oh god, please! I’m ready.” Sherlock groans. John, removing his fingers, Sherlock whimpering at the loss, goes to reach for Sherlock’s drawer.

“Can we not use a condom this time?” Sherlock asks, stilling John’s hand. “I want to feel you, just you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” John asks cautiously.

“Please John. We’re both clean. You’re a doctor, you get yourself regularly checked.” Sherlock states plainly.  “I haven’t touched drugs in seven years. I haven’t been with anyone since you, and I don’t ever plan on being with anyone else ever again.” He confesses, cheeks flushed from their activity and now from embarrassment.

John remains silent for a few seconds, just staring at Sherlock. “You were never with anyone after me?” He asks quietly.

“No one. In any form.” Sherlock adds, reading John’s unspoken question. “I could never want anyone who wasn’t you.”

Faced with such raw honesty, and at a complete loss for words, John swoops down, capturing Sherlock in a searing kiss. “Wait, was I…Was I the first person you slept with as Whitney?” He asks.

“…Yes” Sherlock answers hesitantly.

“My god, how many of your virginities did I take?” John laughs.

“John.” Sherlock says, trying to look stern. “I’m lying here naked, begging for you to take me, do you really want to talk about this now?”

“Mmm, you’re right. Timing” John hums, before licking into Sherlock’s mouth.

John slicks himself up, and slowly pushes forward. Sherlock gasping as John slides in inch by inch, and John fighting to control a wanton groan as he feels Sherlock’s tight heat around him.

“Oh god!...Oh g…this is better than I remembered” Sherlock groans at almost the same time John proclaims “You feel amazing!”

Sherlock leans up, muffling a desperate yell when John is finally fully seated. They still, allowing for Sherlock to adjust to John inside of him, both basking in the feel of being as close to one body as possible.

“You can move now.” Sherlock whispers, starting to buck up against John.

With slow, small thrusts, John begins searching for the right angle. When he finds the right spot, Sherlock lets out a deep, ragged shout, fingers claws at John’s back, his thighs tensing against John’s sides.

Control hanging by a thread, John’s thrusts become faster, begin going deeper.

Head thrown back, hips rising to meet John’s thrusts, “Gah, John!...Oh god. OH GOD! Touch me, John. God please touch me!” Sherlock begins to shout.

John’s hand comes between them, and gripping Sherlock, begins to stroke him in time with this thrusts. “Sherlock, oh Christ! You’re perfect! You’re gorgeous. God you’re gorgeous. Oh Christ, I’ve missed you!” He pants, eyes screwed shut.

“Missed...you too. Harder!...Oh G…Oh please…Oh god, please Harder!!” Sherlock’s words punctuated with wanton moans.

They move together, bringing each other to the brink and then backing off  over and over again, until finally John can feel Sherlock’s muscles start to flutter around him. Suddenly, with a broken off yell, Sherlock goes stiff, practically lifting off the bed, and spills over John’s hand, painting both their chests and stomachs. With Sherlock clenching tight around him, John’s movements become erratic, and a couple of hard, fast thrusts later, John’s vision explodes, emptying himself into Sherlock. With heaving chests, and sweat soaked skin, they ride out their climaxes together, one of John arms snaked around Sherlock’s waist as he rocks against him, the other hand tangled in the sheets, Sherlock arms wrapping around John shoulders, hands buried in his hair.

 

It takes several long minutes for John’s senses to return, his mind still blissfully fuzzy. Gently he pulls out, swallowing the gasp that passes Sherlock’s lips.

“That was…amazing. I’ve never experiences anything like that before.” John says, laying on his side, pulling Sherlock against him, one hand smoothing over his cheek and carding through his hair.

“I have to agree.” Sherlock smiles. “I’d say we surpassed even ourselves.” Gently kissing John almost shyly, Sherlock pulls back, and carefully starts tracing the scar on John’s shoulder.

“You really are fascinated by my scar.” John laughs quietly.

“I told you, it’s beautiful.” Sherlock says, bending his head to kiss the scar. “It brought you home. It brought you back home to me. It gave me my second chance with you. And for that, I will always be grateful to it. I will always love this scar.”

John gently lifts Sherlock’s chin from his shoulder, tears filling his eyes, threatening to spill over. “I thought of you.” He starts. “When it happened, I thought of you. The cliché that your life flashes before your eyes is complete bull. It’s only the parts of your life that really matter. I saw myself kicking a football around with my dad. I saw my mum crying as I graduated from university. I saw Harry hugging me goodbye as I left for training. And I saw you. Like a slide show, I saw every moment we had together. Your face, and the memory of kissing you, holding you, was my last thought before I passed out.” Sherlock stares at him speechless, so John continues. “I’m in love with you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you with every fiber of my being. I always have and I always will. I love you.”

The confession has barely passed John’s lips before Sherlock is kissing him again. “And you are my whole heart.” Sherlock says, pulling away with tears in his eyes. “I didn’t know I was capable of love before I met you, but I am. I met you, and everything changed. I met you, and I couldn’t stop falling in love with you. And I want to spend every moment from now on, showing you and reminding you just how much I love you, John Watson.”

 

The rest of the night is filled with slow, passionate kisses, and heated touches as they re-learn everything they love about each other. In the early morning hours, having come down from yet another earth shattering round of love making (thank god Mrs. Hudson is out for the weekend), Sherlock lays with his head pillowed on John’s chest.

“Sherlock? Can I ask you something?” John asks, lazily twirling one of Sherlock’s curls around his finger.

“Anything.”

“Why did you come see me after I was shot, but not wait around for me to wake up?”

“Mycroft wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”  Sherlock huffs, burying his face in John’s chest.

“I figured out that much. Now answer my question.” John says, the hand that’s not in Sherlock’s hair lightly rubbing up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Mycroft was keeping tabs on you, knowing what you mean to me.” Sherlock mumbles. “He informed me when you were shot, and that you had called out for me. I guess he was feeling uncharacteristically brotherly at the time.”

“I called for you? I had no idea.” John breathes.

“Yes, well, I couldn’t handle the thought of you fighting for your life, and our last contact be you thinking I hated you. I couldn’t let you go through that alone.”

“So why did you leave?” John asks, pulling Sherlock tighter against him.

“When I got there it became clear you were delusional when you called for me, that it was unintentional. I was convinced you didn’t really want me there.” Sherlock says, still not looking at John. “So I just stayed long enough to know you were going to pull through, leaving before I could add emotional injury to physical.” he quietly finishes.

“Oh Sherlock.” John says at a totally loss for words. Then lifting Sherlock’s face, he kisses him deeply. “Mad or not, I would have wanted you there. I desperately wanted you there. Knowing you’d be there for me, still cared for me…” he trails off.

“Well I know that now.” Sherlock huffs, rolling his eyes.

 

They kiss for quite awhile before John speaks again. “I have another question. Completely different topic.”

“Go on.” Sherlock says slowly.

“How long was the longest you ever stayed in Whitney’s form?”

“Ok, that is different. Why do you want to know?” Sherlock asks, half sitting up to look at John.

John quickly pulls Sherlock back against him “Just curious.”

“About 6 weeks. Infiltrated a summer camp as a youth councilor, now that was hell on earth.” Sherlock states

“I can imagine.” John says, starting to play with Sherlock’s hair again. “So you were her for a solid six weeks, lived as a woman for a full six weeks?” He asks.

“John, if this is your way of asking if I’ve experience a menstrual cycle, the answer is yes. It was awful, and I hope to never experience another one.” Sherlock’s hand coming up to pinch John’s side.

“Ouch! Ok, I guess I deserved that. But I had to ask, it was too funny.” John giggles.

“Absolutely hilarious.” Sherlock sighs, face absolutely deadpan. “Go to sleep, I have plans involving you and every surface in this flat. You’re going need to be well rested.” He adds, his velvety voice getting husky, and leans up to kiss John.

“Mmm, happy to oblige. I can’t wait.”

 

And true to his word, over the course of the weekend, Sherlock aquatints John with every surface of 221B. Many times over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maintenant , se il vous plaît maintenant! J'ai besoin de vous, maintenant = Now please now! I need you now. (used google translate, so apologies to any French speakers)
> 
> My childishness won out again, and I couldn't resist the thought of Sherlock having to deal with a period. I'm sorry.
> 
> This is the last chapter, all that's left is the epilogue to tell us if these two crazy kids can make a relationship work.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years down the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is, the last chapter!

“Ok, you get your butt in the shower, immediately” John calls over his shoulder as he trudges into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

“I like the sound of that. Are you going to be joining me?” Sherlock murmurs in John’s ear as he comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around John.

“Absolutely not!” John yelps, pulling away. “I’m not the one who thought it was a good idea to tackle the suspect right into a portaloo. Walking back with you was bad enough!” he teases. “Get cleaned up now, or I won’t be  _joining_ you anytime soon.”

“Fine.” Sherlock pouts, heading off into the bathroom.

Hearing the water start, John settles into his chair, thinking about how much his life has changed in the last two years. 

 

* * *

 

~ Two Years Ago ~

By the end of their first weekend together, Sherlock is all but begging John to move in with him. And though it is way too early in their relationship, and long overdue, if John is honest with himself, nothing compares to mornings wrapped in Sherlock's arms, kissing him awake, and he doesn’t want to be apart from Sherlock for more than a couple hours at the clinic. So after not much persuasion, John agrees to move into 221B, though he insists on taking the second bedroom upstairs. Unsurprisingly, John never actually gets around to sleeping in the upstairs bedroom, neither John nor Sherlock complain about this fact.

Mrs. Hudson is positively ecstatic when they tell her the good news. That is once she got over the initial shock of walking into the sitting room to find Sherlock pinning John to the couch, both  _unusually dressed._ She insists she knew all along that John and Sherlock would find their way back to each other, that she was just giving them the time to figure it out on their own. Surprisingly, both Sherlock and John believe her. She is  _mildly_ psychic after all.

That very next Friday, John and Sherlock move John’s few belongings into 221B. And it so happens that this is the same afternoon that Lestrade, shocked but not all that surprised to find John at Baker Street, finally presents Sherlock with a case. 

A body, the second in two weeks, was found with most of the blood drained, sporting two puncture wounds on the side of the neck. Both victims have the blood type O-negative, and both had an infinity stamp on their hands. Sherlock is quick to figure out both victims frequented the same vampire themed bar, ‘Infinity’. Upon interview, the bartender tells them that there is one person who always asks around about where he could get some actual blood. And though he only knows the man by his ‘vampire’ name, Kol, the bartender insists he would recognize him if shown a picture.

They are just leaving the bar when Sherlock receives an alert that a nearby hospital has had a break in, and all its O-negative blood taken. By some divine providence, blood from the thief is found at the scene, and analyses show a marked deficiency in porphyrins and a low heme count. John is quick to diagnose the perpetrator with Prophyria, and after a cross reference of all o-negative prophyria patients with the bartender’s description, Sherlock is able to identify Liam Pratt as the thief and murderer. They find him in a rundown flat, with all the equipment required to give himself blood transfusions. And after a lengthy chase, Pratt unfortunately possesses superhuman speed, which only feeds his vampire delusion; Pratt is safely in police custody.

The ‘not a vampire’ case takes not even four days, but John is once again hooked on Sherlock’s lifestyle, solving mysteries, and chasing criminals. And before he knows it, John is spending more time with Sherlock at crime scenes then he is at the clinic, taking fewer and fewer shifts. Eventually John submits his resignation to the clinic. With some encouragement from Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and even Greg, John takes a part-time job as a consultant for the diagnostic medicine department at Bart’s. He’s called in to solve some truly fascinating medical mysteries, sating that need, and still has the time to chase criminals all over London with Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

John is so lost in his thoughts he does not hear the water shut off, nor does he notice Sherlock appear, toweling his hair, clad in only his pajama bottoms.

“All clean?” John asks, and only then does he notice the slightly worried look on Sherlock’s face. “Love? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” Sherlock sways slightly from foot to foot.

“Oh no you don’t. Something’s going on up there,” John says, nodding towards Sherlock’s head, turning to face him more fully. “Spill.”

“It’s just…I was wondering…John, do you think you would be happier with Whitney?” Sherlock asks quietly before looking away.

“No. Absolutely not.” John shakes his head emphatically. “What makes you ask that?”

“It’s just…I know how much it bothers you when others look down at us for being in a same-sex relationship.” Sherlock explains. “It would be much easier if it conformed to the heteronormative expectations of our society.”

“I don’t give a crap what society expects, that’s their problem, not ours. I’m not ashamed to be seen with you, I love you. Now I’d still love you and be attracted to you as Whitney, if that’s what you really wanted, benefit of being bi.” Sherlock is quick to shake his head at this. “Good. Because I’m proud for the world to know I’m the man Sherlock Holmes chose.” John finishes, pulling Sherlock down into his lap, kissing his neck.

“Pretty sure I should be the one proud to be seen with you.” Sherlock hums with a contented sigh, stretching his long neck to give John better access.

“Agree to disagree” John mumbles, turning Sherlock’s head so he can kiss him properly, lips parting just enough to allow his tongue to meet Sherlock’s.

“That’s not all, is it? What is it, love?” John asks, pulling way, brow furrowed.

“Sometimes I see the way you look at her…at me, when I have to be her for a case.” Sherlock says. “You look at her with such awe. I can’t help but think maybe I should have been her instead of …me.” It’s quiet for a few moments before John bursts out laughing. “Why is that funny? I’m being serious!” Sherlock huffs, starting to get up from John’s lap.

John pulls Sherlock back down, running his hand through Sherlock’s damp curls. “I know, love. I know.” He reassures him, quieting his laughter. “You have to know, I’m not looking at her with awe, I’m looking at  _you_ . It’s a side effect of watching you work. Seeing the way your mind works, how you come alive when handed a puzzle, and I see that shining through even when you’re Whitney. I’m so in awe of you, I’ve got a permanent look of amazement on my face. Just ask Greg, I’m pretty sure he has a whole folder of photos of me looking at you like an idiot. It’s probably his main source of entertainment.”  John chuckles, quickly pecking Sherlock on the lips, and smiling at him.

Sherlock looks at John with the innocence of a much younger man. “Do you mean that?”

“With all my heart.” John smiles sincerely, rubbing his thumb across Sherlock’s cheek.

“But how can you be sure?”

“Ok, get up you lump.” John sighs, pushing Sherlock off his lap, and standing up. “I was going to do this properly this weekend, but I share my life with Sherlock Holmes. I should know better than to actually make plans for anything.” He mutters to himself as he walks into the kitchen and begins rooting around under the sink.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, thoroughly confused.

“This.” John says as he walks back into sitting room, and guides Sherlock to sit in his leather chair, kneeling in front of him. “You asked me how I’m sure I want to be with you. I know I want to be with  _you,_ Sherlock Holmes, because when you turned around and told me all about myself, all those years ago, I was instantly filled with a happiness and excitement I never knew before. Because that happiness and excitement only grew the more I was with you. I know I want to be with you, because those horrid years we were apart, I thought of nothing but you.” Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but John keeps talking. “And when I saw you again at Bart’s, even though it was strained, I felt that instant rush of happiness again. I know I want to be with you, because the closest I ever got to moving on from you, was with you. And when we finally found our way back to each other, the joy and love I felt, and have felt every moment since, eclipsed everything I have ever known, or will know. I love you, Sherlock. I love who you were, I love who you are, and I love who you will be. You have given my life purpose and passion, and I never want to know life without you again. That’s how I know I’m sure I want to be with you. That is how I know I will always want to be with you, which is why I’m asking, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?” And with that, John opens a small black box, revealing a simple brushed silver band.

Sherlock remains silent, in what appears to be a state of shock, eyelids rapidly blinking, mouth opening and closing. “Sherlock….Sherlock?.....Ok, now it’s getting a bit freaky.” John says, trying to break Sherlock from his trance. And in a flurry of motion, Sherlock launches himself off his chair, enveloping John in his arms, smashing his mouth against John’s.

“Ouch” John pulls back laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes! Of course it’s a yes! How could it be anything but a yes?”  Sherlock’s eyes shining as he watches John slide the band onto his finger.

“I couldn't be sure, but I hoped.”  John grins, allowing Sherlock to pull him into a kiss, this kiss far less forceful, but no less passionate.

 

Hours later they lay naked, tangled together, the sheets cool against their flushed skin, Sherlock admiring the ring on his left hand.

“You said you had a plan. When did you plan this? How did you plan? I mean, how did I not know you were planning this?” Sherlock asks, clearly baffled as to how John could keep him in the dark like this.

“Because you somehow got it in that brilliant head of yours that you’re not good enough for me. It somehow blinded you to the fact that I could never be happier with anyone else on earth.”  John says taking Sherlock’s hand, kissing the silver band. “But I have to say, it worked out well. It’s not every day I can keep a secret from the great Sherlock Holmes, let alone surprising him!” He chuckles.

“Don’t get used to it.” Sherlock says flatly. “How long were you planning this?”

John turns Sherlock’s hand over, and kisses his palm. “Well. I think I knew I wanted to marry you right after we solved that vampire case”

“He was  _not_ a vampire.”

John just levels Sherlock with a look, before continuing. “Then last month when we were with your parents for Christmas, and I saw how happy they were together, I decided then and there that I was going to propose.”  His hand moving to smooth Sherlock’s now frizzy curls.

“So what was the original plan?” Sherlock hums pushing his head up into John’s fingers.

“I was going to take you to Angelo’s on Sunday, feed you up and get you nice and compliant. Then I was going to suggest we walk home the long way to enjoy the evening and each other’s company. All the while, subtly reminding you of how happy our life together has been. Then when we got home, to a roaring fire Mrs. Hudson had already started, I was going sit you down in your chair and give you pretty much the same speech I did tonight. Oh, and there would have been champagne chilling in the fridge to celebrate. Instead there’s just a head and some toes.” John explains kissing Sherlock cheeks, chin, brows, and finally his lips.

“Sunday, huh? The 29 th . The anniversary of when we first met.” Sherlock smiles, wrapping his arms around John tighter.

“Yep, both times.”

“You’re such a romantic, John Watson.” Mumbles Sherlock, leaning forward to rub his nose along John’s

“And you’d have me no other way.”

“Agreed. Though, I’d have you any number of ways.” Sherlock hums, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’re a pervert. I've gone and fallen in love with a pervert.” John laughs.

“Correction, you've gone and gotten engaged to a pervert. And you’d have me no other way.”

“Agreed. I love you, future husband.”

“And I am completely in love with you, future husband.” Sherlock breathes, kissing John.

The kisses hold the promise of a future filled with adventure, excitement, a fair few arguments, but most of all, a future filled with love and devotion. And after over ten years, this is the future John Watson and Sherlock Holmes deserve.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so completes the first fic I wrote in over a decade. I hope you all enjoyed reading it, because I sure enjoyed writing it. (Maybe too much, because I've started brainstorming more fic ideas. Send help!)
> 
> (The whole vampire case was inspired by an episode of 'Psych' where they dealt with a pretty similar case. The 'not a vampires' name comes from Spike and Angel's human names from Buffy, and I googled the Vampire Diaries to find a 'vampire name'. I feel like such a dork)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the movie 'Tootsie' where Dustin Hoffman's character says "But I was a better man with you, as a woman, than I ever was with a woman, as a man"


End file.
